


Threads N' Roses

by XxmerthurcatxX



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Combination of tv show Geralt and book Geralt so he’s a little more talkative and slightly softer, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Red String of Fate, Soulmates, but i tried lol, everyone is bad at feelings, geralt vs his feelings, in this house we love and support yennefer of vengerberg, mild gore because the djinn episode, my timeline of events is probably not perfect, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25344682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxmerthurcatxX/pseuds/XxmerthurcatxX
Summary: Jaskier stared at the solitary man in the corner booth. He was large and imposing, but his golden eyes were captivating even as they glared at Jaskier over the top of his beer mug. There was a red thread tied around his finger and out of habit, Jaskier followed it to see if it was connected to anyone in the pub. His breath caught when he found the other end tied to his own finger.“Oh shit.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 103
Kudos: 666





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try to stick to Friday updates <3

When Jaskier was five years old, his mother told him a bedtime story about the red thread of fate. 

“Listen close, Buttercup,” she said as she climbed into the bed next to him and put out her arm for him to snuggle into. 

“Long ago, shortly after the creation of the world, a woman woke up to find a bright red thread tied to her pinky finger. She tried and tried to untie the knot and pull it off, but it wouldn’t budge. When she asked her father about it, he told her to stop playing make believe and get to work on her chores. It was then that she realized he couldn’t see the thread. Nor could he see the one attached to his own finger. And it wasn’t until that night around the dinner table, that she saw the thread around her father’s pinky was connected to the one around her mother’s pinky.”

Jaskier listened to the story with rapt attention. He always loved his mother’s stories and this one was quickly becoming his new favorite. 

“But what does the thread mean?” he asked eagerly. 

His mother smiled. 

“Every person on the planet is one half of a whole. The red thread binds you to the person you’re meant to be with. Some call it true love. Others call it soulmates,” she explained. 

“What do  _ you _ call it?” Jaskier asked. 

His mother ruffled his hair and kissed his nose. 

“I call it destiny!” she said dramatically. 

Jaskier erupted into a fit of giggles and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. 

“Then I’ll call it destiny too...Wait!” he cried suddenly, pulling away. “Can  _ you _ see the thread?”

The smile fell from his mother’s face. She brushed Jaskier’s bangs back from his forehead. 

“Yes. Yes, dearest, I can.” 

Jaskier couldn’t understand why she sounded so sad. It sounded magical to be able to see the thread. To know who was meant for who. His eyes widened at the thought. 

“Can you see  _ my _ thread?” he asked excitedly. “I-is is attached to someone in town? Is it Faye from down the lane?” he asked, his five year old mind unable to comprehend that there was a whole world beyond the place where he was growing up. That his thread could be attached to anyone and the likelihood of it being one of the children he sometimes played with who lived down the road from him, was slim to none. 

His mother smiled, but the sadness in her eyes didn’t leave. She kissed Jaskier’s forehead and slipped out of bed, tucking him in. 

“If I told you who it was, it would take all the fun out of finding them for yourself,” she said. 

Jaskier pouted, but when his head hit the pillow and he realized how sleepy he was, he had no trouble drifting off. 

It wasn’t the last time he would ask his mother who his thread was tied to. He peppered her with questions for the next five years and every time she refused to answer them. 

It wasn’t until she died and her ability to see the thread passed to Jaskier, that he finally understood why she wouldn’t tell him. 

He didn’t have one. 


	2. Chapter One

When Jaskier dreamt of becoming a bard, he’d imagined playing for nobility in crowded banquet halls and ballrooms. He imagined traveling the world and dazzling everyone he met with ballads and jigs alike. He did not imagine being pelted with bread in a pub in Posada. 

The years hadn’t exactly been kind to Jaskier since his mother died. Orphaned at ten years old, he’d been sent to live with his uncle to learn all about his duties as a noble. It was all dreadfully boring. 

There was also the matter of his gift. Before she died, his mother told him that his ability was better kept secret. If he happened to notice that two people shared a thread, he could offer advice that would lead them to each other, but other than that, he should keep it to himself. Needless to say, he was more than a little conflicted when he took notice on his first day as his uncle’s ward that his uncle’s thread was not attached to his wife’s, but to his wife’s brother. The guilt of knowing the truth ate him alive for years. 

When he was eighteen, he left in the middle of the night and never went back. He did send letters to his uncle every so often to let him know that he was okay. 

His first year on his own had been one of the hardest years of his life as he struggled to find work in exchange for a meal and shelter for the night. But once he got a little experience under his belt, things got better. He ended up at Oxenfurt University for a spell. Then of course he'd decided to really have a go at making it as a bard. More often than not he ended up getting food thrown at him instead of coin. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he did need to eat. 

“I liked your song.” 

Jaskier turned to see the lovely woman who had been working behind the bar standing with her hands clasped behind her back and a flirtatious look in her eye. 

“Oh? You seem to be the only one,” Jaskier joked, pocketing a few pieces of bread. 

The girl snorted. 

“Ignore the lot of them. They’re too drunk to appreciate any sort of artistry,” she said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. 

Jaskier smiled. She really was very pretty with her bright green eyes and freckled cheeks. It had been a while since anyone had flirted with him so brazenly. Before he could flirt back, he caught sight of the little red thread tied around her pinky finger. He followed the thread with his eyes and was surprised to see that it was attached to someone else in the pub. Well that hardly ever happened. But from the way the besotted serving boy was looking at the girl, he knew he’d be better off declining her advances. After all, if she knew that her fated match was only a few feet away from her, she wouldn’t be wasting her time with a thread-less nobody like Jaskier. 

“I’m glad you liked the song,” Jaskier said, noting the disappointed look in her eyes when he didn’t say anything flirty. “But I think perhaps that boy over there looking at you like you hung the moon is more deserving of your attention.” 

The girl glanced over her shoulder. 

“Who? Toby? Oh no, he’d never--I-I mean, I don’t think he’d be interested,” she said, a light blush staining her cheeks. 

Jaskier smiled and gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. 

“Trust me. He’s interested.” 

The girl smiled shyly and made her way back over to the bar, the same dreamy look in her eye that the other boy had. 

Jaskier sighed. What he wouldn’t give for--

The thought stopped dead in its tracks as Jaskier caught sight of the man sitting in the furthest corner of the pub. 

Even sitting down, Jaskier could tell he was tall and with shoulders like that, he was more than broad. Definitely a presence in any room he set foot in. His hair was long and white, down just past his shoulders, though he wore part of it pulled back. Jaskier had never seen anyone with white hair like that. Well, no one under the age of sixty. And his jawline...was it legal to have a jawline like that? 

It was his eyes though, that Jaskier was most drawn to. Even from across the room he could see that they were yellow. No, that wasn’t right. Gold maybe? Or amber. Whatever color they were, they were hypnotizing. For the first time in his life, Jaskier was at a loss for words. 

_ “How can someone know they’ve met their fated match, if they can’t see the string?” Jaskier asked, setting aside the wooden horse he’d been playing with and staring up at his mother.  _

_ “It’s one of those things you just know. There’s a feeling. Not a shock like lightning or a thunder clap. But something swirls in your gut and you just--know.”  _

_ Jaskier huffed and picked his horse back up. How could anyone just know something without being able to see the proof? _

As a child, he couldn’t understand. 

But now he could. 

That man, who looked like he might brood himself into a stupor, was meant for Jaskier. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind, thread or no. 

And speaking of threads, Jaskier’s heart dropped when he saw that little red knot around the man’s pinky finger. Out of habit, he followed the path of the thread. His heart stopped when he looked down at his own hand. A hand that had been bare for years. He always thought he was destined to be alone, but there, tied around his pinky finger, was his very own thread that was indeed attached to the man in the corner. 

It must have looked strange, Jaskier standing in the middle of the pub, staring with rapt attention at his pinky finger. But it wasn’t everyday something utterly magical happened. Or maybe it was, but it certainly never happened anywhere around Jaskier, let alone  _ to _ him!

Jaskier glanced up from his hand to look at the brooding man again. His brow was furrowed even as he took a long swig off his mug. For a split second a foam mustache settled on his top lip, but he wiped it away with his hand and went back to grimacing at the table like it had personally offended him. 

Jaskier was besotted. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Jaskier was snagging a mug of beer from the nearby serving boy and making his way across the room. It didn’t occur to him until he was standing in front of the man that he had no idea what to say. He didn’t think he’d ever have to deal with explaining to someone that they were tied together by a piece of red string and therefore destined to be together. But now, here he was. 

The man looked up at him, a deep frown on his face, and Jaskier said the first thing that popped into his head. 

“I love the way you just--sit in a corner and brood.”

Unsurprisingly the man said nothing.

Jaskier took his silence as the invitation it  _ clearly _ wasn’t, and sat down across from him. He tapped his thumbs nervously against his mug. 

“So...what brings you to Posada?” Jaskier asked, not really expecting an answer. Afterall, he’d been given no sign that the man was looking for a conversation. Or that he could speak for that matter. Still, he hadn’t gotten up from the table and he wasn’t asking Jaskier to leave, so the bard stayed right where he was and took the opportunity to get a better look at the man up close. He really was breathtaking. 

“I came to drink,” the man said suddenly, startling Jaskier. “Alone,” he added pointedly. 

Jaskier snorted. 

“Yes, well, I came to play for an adoring crowd and you saw how well that turned out,” Jaskier said, his eyes fixed on the medallion around the man’s neck. He’d seen that symbol before, just one other time. When a man had wandered into a pub he was playing at, slapped the head of a selkimore on the table, and asked for the reward. And just like that, he knew exactly who he was dealing with. 

“You’re a witcher aren’t you?” he asked excitedly. 

If it was possible, the man’s brow furrowed even deeper. His lip curled into a sneer. 

“You are!” Jaskier said, not waiting for an answer. “And not just any witcher. I must say, the hair is a dead give away. Geralt of Rivia, am I right? Or, um, what was the other thing they called you? The Butcher of Blavikan!” 

The pub went dead silent. 

Ah, perhaps he’d said that a little too loudly. 

Wordlessly, Geralt drained his mug and slapped a couple of coins down on the table before pushing himself out of the booth and walking straight out the door. 

Jaskier was so distracted by the view of the witcher’s ass that he almost let him walk right out of his life. Thankfully, his upstairs brain caught up with his downstairs brain, and he quickly followed Geralt outside. 

“Wait! Wait for me!” 

For a man wearing so much armor, Geralt moved surprisingly fast. When Jaskier managed to catch up to him he was more than a little out of breath. Geralt wasn’t looking at him, his attention focused on a lovely chestnut brown horse and oh, what Jaskier wouldn’t give for that fond expression to be for him instead. 

“Goddess above, you’re quick. Those shoulder pads look heavy, don’t they slow you down?” Jaskier asked.

“Fuck off,” Geralt said, taking hold of the reigns and moving to lead his horse down path toward where the “devil” was last spotted. 

The horse didn’t move. Her gaze was fixed on Jaskier. Honestly, it was a little unnerving. 

“Come on, Roach,” Geralt murmured, giving another tug at the reigns. 

The horse, Roach apparently, still wouldn’t follow. Instead, she moved toward Jaskier, stopping when she was right in front of him to sniff at his doublet. 

“Um...hello,” Jaskier said stupidly, looking away from Roach, who had moved onto snuffling into his hair, and chancing a glance at Geralt. 

The witcher looked surprised. His brow was still furrowed, but he looked more curious than angry. Jaskier wagered Roach wasn’t usually quite so forthcoming. With a tentative hand, Jaskier reached out and scratched Roach behind the ear. She snorted and hooked her chin over Jaskier’s shoulder. The bard laughed, running his fingers through her mane. 

“Well, at least I’ve made a good first impression on someone,” Jaskier said, nearly losing his balance when Roach tried to get closer. 

Geralt finally stepped in, rolling his eyes as he took hold of the reins again. 

“You’re not a lapdog, Roach,” he grumbled, though there was no ferocity in his words. “And we have work to do.” 

Reluctantly, Roach stepped away from Jaskier to follow the witcher. The witcher who was now staring at Jaskier like he was a particularly difficult puzzle that needed solving. 

It wasn’t unusual for animals to pick up on the thread bond. They were nothing if not perceptive. Jaskier remembered his mother telling him that when she first met his father, her dogs had tackled the man to the ground in excitement, like they knew he was about to become a permanent fixture in their lives. 

Jaskier panicked that Geralt would suspect something. Which, in hindsight was ridiculous, since he didn’t even know if Geralt believed in the red thread of fate.

“I’ve got an apple in my pocket!” he blurted, even though he definitely did not. “She, uh, must have smelled it, but I-I must apologize old girl, I’m saving the apple for dinner,” he lied. 

Geralt gave him a calculating stare and a short “Hmm” that Jaskier couldn’t even begin to decipher the meaning of before turning to walk away again. 

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked, not waiting for an answer before he started to follow. “Geralt? Geralt, don’t leave me here!” 


	3. Chapter Two

One day. 

That’s all it took. 

One fucking day and Jaskier was already utterly infatuated. 

That wasn’t exactly out of the norm for him. Just because he had lacked a thread for the first twenty two years of his life, didn’t mean he had solely kept to himself in terms of company. Most bards, even ones with a proclivity for having food chucked at them, were still the subject of pub patron’s affections. As a die hard romantic, Jaskier fell a little bit in love with every person who took him to bed, even knowing that it was destined not to work out. 

But with Geralt it was something else entirely. 

Geralt had done his best to rebuff Jaskier’s attempts at conversation as they wandered down the road, but the bard would not be turned away. Anyone else who just found out their thread was attached to a witcher might panic or be disgusted, but not Jaskier. No, Jaskier was immediately taken with the other man. 

The witcher, however, didn’t seem to share his interest. Though he didn’t run Jaskier through with his sword or push him off the nearest cliffside, so that had to count for something. Not to mention, when one of Filavandrel’s guards had landed a swift kick to Jaskier’s stomach, Geralt had called for them to leave him alone. And he got the elf to gift Jaskier a new lute! And what a beautiful lute she was. Sexy even, one might say. And very—

Geralt’s voice startled Jaskier out of his thoughts. 

“This is where we part ways, bard. For good,” Geralt said gruffly, as if he and Jaskier hadn’t just survived a near death experience together. 

“What? B-but I just--I mean we just--we’ve only just met! And I have so many songs already floating around in my head,” Jaskier said, scrambling for an excuse to stay by the witcher’s side. He slipped his brand new lute from around his back, into his hands, and began to strum a quick tune. 

_ Toss a coin to your Witcher _

_ Oh valley of plenty _

_ Oh valley of plenty ooooh _

_ Toss a coin to your Witcher  _

_ A friend of humanity! _

Jaskier paused. He’d only meant to start playing as a way to get Geralt to stay put and listen instead of ride off into the sunset without him, but that was actually quite good. Better yet, it gave him an idea. 

“Huh,” Jaskier said aloud, plucking another chord. “You know, I could help you change your image.” 

Geralt frowned. 

“My image?”

“Spruce it up a bit,” Jaskier explained. “Think about it! People will hear the songs I write about you and maybe they won’t be so rude when you set foot in their towns.”

Geralt snorted and gave a flick to Roach’s Reims, signaling for her to get a move on. 

“Witcher’s have been hated for centuries, bard. A song won’t change that.”

Jaskier shook his head. 

“I disagree. People love a good story and that’s all a song is; a story put to music,” he said, jogging to keep up with Roach’s pace. “Come on, Geralt. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk into any town you please and not have to worry about having rocks thrown at you?”

Geralt didn’t answer, but Jaskier didn’t miss the slight tug he gave on the reins, making Roach slow up a little. 

Jaskier smiled. He wasn’t ready to tell Geralt about the thread, but he was more than willing to spend a little time getting to know the man he was destined to spend his life with. Not to mention it was an opportunity to do a little digging. Find out exactly how Geralt felt about destiny and the like. 

It was going to be one hell of an adventure. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“That was actual hell,” Jaskier panted. He was leaning heavily against a tree and trying to catch his breath. 

Turns out, traveling with Geralt was borderline torture. At least in terms of what it was doing to his body. Had he known they’d be spending HOURS walking without a rest, he'd have worn different shoes. And the silence. Oh, the deafening fucking silence. Trying to get two words from the Witcher was like pulling teeth!

Geralt, of course, looked like the picture of health as he stroked Roach’s mane and unhooked his bedroll from her saddle. 

Thankfully, they’d had to return to Posada for Geralt to relay the message that the devil wouldn’t be bothering them anymore. The townspeople took that to mean the devil was dead, and Geralt didn’t correct them. That was a very smart and generous move, Jaskier thought. The last thing that creature needed was a bird if angry humans after it. 

While Geralt dealt with the matter of payment, Jaskier excused himself to the room he’d rented to pack what few belongings he had. He packed quickly, no doubt in his mind that if he took his time about it Geralt would leave him behind. 

An hour into their journey and Jaskier regretted packing his music books. Had they always been so heavy? 

Cut to so many hours later Jaskier lost count and he was more than a little exhausted. At least physically. He unhooked his own bedroll from his pack, since Geralt wouldn’t let him strap any of his things to Roach, and laid it out. 

“Where are you going?” he asked when he noticed Geralt starting to walk away from camp. 

“Getting dinner,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier watched him go, because how could he not. You could bounce a coin off that ass. He had half a mind to try actually, but he didn’t think Geralt would appreciate it. Instead, he slipped out of his doublet and tucked it neatly into his bag and he pulled out his lute. It was a small comfort to play quietly for himself in the quiet of the woods. 

Too tired to work on anything new, Jaskier played his favorites; songs he’d written on the road so far that were hardly worth playing in pubs. He loved them anyway. 

_ We’re bound together, you and I _

_ Thank providence it’s true _

_ I can’t think what my life would be _

_ Were I not tied to you _

_ A thread of red will do the job _

_ There is no better tether _

_ I’ll kiss your cheek and warm your heart _

_ And every storm we’ll weather _

“Do you ever sing about anything real?”

Jaskier would deny with his dying breath the squeak he let out at the sound of Geralt’s voice. The witcher was leaning against a tree, a couple of dead rabbits in his hand, and an almost curious look on his face. 

“What, you don’t believe in the red thread of fate?” Jaskier asked when he’d recovered. 

“It’s a myth,” Geralt said, plunking down on a log and setting the rabbits aside. He shrugged out of the bulk of his armor and pushed the sleeves of his shirt up. Jaskier swallowed hard. Normally, he liked a bit of color in a person’s wardrobe, but Geralt wore the all black ensemble unfairly well. 

“Give me one of those,” Jaskier said, pointing to the rabbits. He needed something to do with his his hands to distract himself from doing something stupid like offer to rip Geralt’s clothes off and bed him like he’d never been bedded before.

Geralt frowned. 

“They need to be skinned.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes and pulled a knife out of his bag. He stuck his hand out, wiggling his fingers until Geralt conceded and handed over one of the rabbits. 

Skinning anything was hardly Jaskier’s favorite activity, but he’d done it enough times that he was pretty good at it. The look of surprise on Geralt’s face was honestly a little insulting. 

“I’ve been on my own a long time. I’m not completely useless,” Jaskier said defensively. 

Geralt didn’t respond, picking up his own rabbit to skin. 

“And you’re wrong about the red thread,” Jaskier added, unable to help himself. 

“Hmm?” Geralt asked, not really listening as he reached for Jaskier’s rabbit. 

“It’s not a myth.” 

Geralt made a strange gesture with his hand and the next moment there was a fire burning between them. Huh. That was a nice trick. 

“How do you know?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier nibbled his bottom lip and shrugged, watching as the witcher skewered the rabbits and played them over the fire to cook. 

“I just do.”

There was decidedly less conversation after that, both too engrossed in their meals to say much. Not that Geralt spoke much anyway. Jaskier was surprised he’d gotten as many words out of him as he had. The silence was more comfortable now though and despite the chill in the air and the rocks digging into his spine even through his bedroll, Jaskier found sleep easily. 

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was where he needed to be. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jaskier listened with rapt attention to the pub patron, relaying the story of Geralt fighting a selkimore and “dying.” He’d known Geralt long enough at this point to know that rumors of his death were often greatly exaggerated. As was proven not a moment later when the door burst open and the witcher sauntered in, covered head to toe in monster guts. 

“See, he’s fine,” Jaskier said, stifling a laugh at the horrified looks on the patron’s faces. He was sure he’d looked similar the first time he’d seen Geralt return to camp covered in disgusting monster goo, but he was more than used to it by now. 

As soon as the coin pouch was in Geralt’s hand, Jaskier was ushering the witcher upstairs to his room. 

“You, my friend, need a bath,” Jaskier said, shoving him toward the bathtub that was already filled with steaming water. 

Geralt stripped off his disgusting clothes, unashamed as he crossed the room naked and climbed into the bath. Jaskier flagged down a maid in the hallway and tipped her generously to have the clothes washed. 

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Jaskier said innocently, upending a bucket of water over Geralt’s head and grinning when the witcher grunted in displeasure. “Oh come now. A little bath water won’t kill you.” 

“Whatever favor you’re about to ask of me might,” Geralt grumbled knowingly. 

Jaskier pulled up a stool behind Geralt and with soap in hand, got to work on the tangled mess that currently was the witcher’s hair. 

“I’ve been invited to play at Princess Pavetta’s marriage banquet. Seems my songs have reached even Queen Calanthe,” Jaskier said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. 

It seemed like such a long time ago that he'd played in Posada and been paid in stale bread that was hurled at him by an unforgiving audience. He’d made quite the name for himself since he started traveling with Geralt. Admittedly the traveling bit was off and on, since the witcher had a proclivity for leaving Jaskier behind if the hunt was too dangerous or if he'd grown tired of having a companion. Not to mention Geralt spent the winters at Kaer Morhen with the rest of the witchers. But the time away just gave Jaskier time to work on his music, even if he missed the witcher terribly while he was gone. 

Whenever he was feeling particularly lonely all he had to do was look down at the thread tied to his finger and remember that, no matter the distance, they would always find their way back to one another.

Not that he’d told Geralt that because, if he’d learned anything traveling with the other man, it was that Geralt did not take kindly to the idea of fate and or destiny. 

“There are of course drawbacks to making a name for yourself singing about witchers who, no offense, are hated the world over,” Jaskier continued. “I’d feel better about the whole evening if I knew I had someone looking out for trouble.”

“You want me to be your bodyguard?” Geralt asked, voice dripping with disdain. 

Jaskier sighed, filling a cup with water to wash the soap out of Geralt’s hair. 

“As I said. Not everyone appreciates my tales of your heroics,” he said quietly. 

It was silent for a long moment, Geralt sitting perfectly still and not letting out so much as a grunt while Jaskier finished with his hair. 

“You’ve got people after you because of me?” Geralt asked slowly. 

Jaskier got up from the stool to grab a towel, offering it to Geralt as the witcher stood and pointedly looking at the ground so as not to make a fool of himself staring. 

“No one is  _ after me _ per say but, um, there may have been an altercation at the last pub I played in in which I was taken out back and kicked around a bit. Seems that particular town wasn’t overly fond of witchers. A bit too close to Blaviken I expect,” Jaskier admitted, only daring to look again when Geralt had the towel safely secured around his waist. 

The look on Geralt’s face gave him pause. As usual, he was frowning, but there was something in his eyes Jaskier wasn’t used to seeing.  _ Concern _ . 

But it was fine!  _ I'm  _ Fine!” Jaskier said quickly. “More popular than I ever have been now that I’ve got a friend like you--

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt said seriously. 

Jaskier huffed, picking up a stack of clothes he’d picked out for the occasion and handing them to Geralt. 

“Yes you are.” 

Geralt took the clothes without question and Jaskier wondered if he’d even bothered to look at them to notice they weren’t his usually all black ensemble. 

“No. I’m not,” Geralt said firmly. 

“Shut up, Geralt,” Jaskier said, surprising himself as much as the witcher. He recovered quickly, crossing his arms and fixing Geralt with a look. 

“You may not recognize me as a friend because I’m the first one you’ve ever had, but that’s what I am,” he said, moving to the small set of drawers in the corner of the room and pulling out his own outfit for the evening. 

“You may have no interest in being a friend to me, but I have interest in being one to you because even big broody witchers need someone looking out for them. So I am going to continue writing and performing songs about you and following you around to make sure you bathe once in a while, which I think makes me a friend to humanity as well,” he said petulantly, moving into Geralt’s space and poking the witcher hard in the chest. 

“I’m looking out for you whether you like it or not. Deal with it.”

Geralt stared at him bemusedly, as if Jaskier were a particularly hard puzzle he was having trouble solving. 

“Hmm,” he said. 

Jaskier threw up his hands. 

“Unbelievable. All that and the only thing you have to say is--

“Thank you.” 

Jaskier dropped the doublet he was holding on the floor, turning to stare at Geralt with wide eyes. The witcher wasn’t looking at him and if Jaskier didn’t know better he’d say the other man looked embarrassed. Embarrassed but..pleased. 

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier said, ignoring the heat that had rushed to his cheeks. “Now, get dressed and then have a seat so I can do something with your hair. Oh! And I can pay you for your troubles. I’m not sure if I mentioned that earlier.” 

“Keep your coin,” Geralt said lowly, dropping the towel and yanking on the pants Jaskier had handed him. 

“Right. Um, thanks,” Jaskier said, turning away to get dressed himself. 

This was already shaping up to be an interesting evening. Jaskier was in good spirits by the time the banquet was in full swing. 

But of course, everything went to shit, as it almost always did. 

As Jaskier watched Geralt disappearing through the crowd of people, running away from destiny when it tried to grab a hold of him, he knew it would be a while before he saw the witcher again. Alone in his room that night, he ran his fingers over the thread, feeling foolish at the tears that filled his eyes. 

“Come back soon, dear heart.” 


	4. Chapter Three

“Not that I don’t love this plan,” Jaskier drawled, hands on his hips as he watched Geralt cast the net into the water again. “But wouldn’t it be better to visit the local physician for a sleeping drought? I mean, searching for a djinn to cure a little insomnia seems a bit much.”

Geralt didn’t answer. He dragged the net back in, cursing when it came up empty, and move a little further down the river before casting it again 

“I could try helping if you like,” Jaskier offered. “I’ve got a handful of lullabies in my repertoire. Or maybe I could—

“Don’t you have some countess to be flirting with? Or someone’s wife to sleep with?” Geralt snapped. 

Jaskier laughed, though it sounded false even to his own ears. The idea that he could even look at anyone else when he had Geralt by his side was ridiculous. Sure he hasn’t been completely celibate, because Geralt hadn’t and Jaskier sure as hell wasn’t going to have the witcher being the only one getting laid. But his partners were few and far between. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken someone to bed. 

“Yes, well, my last uh,  _ lover _ , left me,” Jaskier lied. 

“Did you sing to her?” Geralt asked. 

“Of course I sang to her,” Jaskier said in mock offense. He was starting to wonder how much of the story he’d have to come up with. “I’m a bard, that’s what bards—

He cut himself off, eyes narrowing. 

“Are you...are you implying she left me because I sang to her?” he asked suspiciously. 

Geralt glanced at him over his shoulder and shrugged. 

Considering there was no lover and therefore no one to leave him because of his singing, Jaskier really shouldn’t have been as offended as he was. 

“So, you suddenly have an opinion on my singing then? After years of silence on the subject, you’ve decided you want to give me a critique? Go on then. How do you like my singing?” Jaskier asked petulantly. 

“I don’t,” Geralt said simply. 

Okay, ouch. 

“I hope you find that djinn soon because you clearly need to sleep off this strop you’re in,” Jaskier sniffed. “And I’ll have you know, she left me because she found the man she was meant to spend her life with. Destiny and all that,” Jaskier said innocently. 

Geralt snorted. 

“Still on about that stupid thread?” the witcher asked, pulling up his net and plucking something out of it that Jaskier couldn’t see. 

“Yes I am. It’s real, Geralt, I swear,” he said. Not long ago, Jaskier had decided that the first step to telling Geralt that they were bound to each other, was getting him to believe that the red thread existed. 

Geralt shook his head, clearing mud off the top of the amphora he’d pulled up. Jaskier moved a little closer to peer around Geralt at the item in the witcher’s hands. 

“That’s the djinn then?” he asked. 

Geralt nodded, taking a moment to study the symbol on top of the cover. 

“Could I see that for a second?” Jaskier asked, already curling his fingers around one of the handles. He’d never been in contact with anything like a djinn before and he wanted a better look. Perhaps there was a song in this somewhere. The tale of a bard who stumbled on a djinn. Now that would make--

“Let go,” Geralt said sternly, giving a tug. 

Jaskier grasped the handle with both hands, because  _ goddess above _ Geralt was strong, and pulled it back toward himself. 

“I just want to look at it before you go making your wishes. How did you even know it was in the lake? Do djinns always make their homes in lakes? What about--

Jaskier broke off as he lost his grip on the amphora when Geralt gave a particularly hard yank. Unfortunately, the witcher seemed to have underestimated his own strength and it flew out of his hand, clattering to the ground. 

It shattered on impact. 

There was a sudden gust of wind as dark smoke rose up from the remnants of the amphora and drifted off to who knows where. 

“Oh, um,” Jaskier started, guilt washing over him immediately. He’d only wanted to look at it. He’d gotten too excited and now he’d gone and ruined Geralt’s chances of a good night’s rest. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I just wanted--

“I don’t care what  _ you _ wanted,” Geralt snarled, leaning down to pick up the lid, cursing when he cut himself on a piece of the broken pottery. “ _ I _ wanted some peace and quiet!”

No sooner had the words left Geralt’s mouth then Jaskier felt his throat begin to close. He doubled over, heaving loudly and was mortified when he coughed and a truly unfortunate amount of blood dripped out of his mouth. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, pocketing the lid to the amphora and looping an arm under the bard’s shoulders. “What’s wrong? What’s--

He cut off sharply, staring with wide eyes at Jaskier’s throat. Well that wasn’t a good sign. Jaskier reached up to touch his neck, but Geralt stopped him with a gentle hand around his wrist. 

“Don’t...Don’t touch that. It’s...not good,” Geralt said haltingly. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but immediately broke off into another coughing fit.

“Come on, you need help,” Geralt murmured, scooping Jaskier into his arms and bringing him over to where Roach was waiting. 

Were Jaskier not currently choking on his own blood, he might actually have enjoyed the moment. He knew Geralt was strong, but knowing and  _ feeling _ those arms around him were two totally different things. 

Geralt got Jaskier settled in the saddle before climbing up behind him. The ride was bumpy and uncomfortable and Jaskier’s favorite blue doublet was ruined now from all the blood stains, but Geralt was warm where he was pressed against Jaskier’s back, and he kept saying things like “ _ you’re going to be fine _ ,” “ _ hold on _ ,” “ _ it’s going to be okay _ .” Jaskier honestly wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to reassure. 

Soon enough they came across a soldier’s camp and Geralt was pulling to a stop. He slid off of Roach and helped Jaskier down, lifting him into his arms again and carrying him to the nearest soldier. 

“Is there a physician here?” he asked. 

The soldier pointed to a tent nearby and Geralt nodded a quick thank you before moving briskly where the soldier had indicated. Jaskier nearly toppled over when Geralt set him down on the bench. 

“He needs help. He’s been cursed,” Geralt addressed the physician, who Jaskier noted at pointed ears. Ah. An elf then. Hopefully this one didn’t mind humans as much as the elves they’d run into previously did. 

Jaskier was rapidly becoming less lucid, only picking up bits and snippets of what the elf was saying. There was something about needing a magical cure, but that the elf could at least help with the pain, and then a potion was being shoved into his mouth. Jaskier struggled for a moment. He’d never been great with physicians. But then Geralt’s fingers were curling under his chin, tipping his head back. 

“It’s alright. It’ll help,” Geralt said, patting Jaskier on the back awkwardly. In another situation, Jaskier would have smiled. Geralt trying to comfort him and not really knowing how was ridiculously endearing. 

Jaskier grimaced at the taste of the potion, his head lolling back to rest against Geralt’s chest. He was starting to drift off when the elf mentioned something about the damage to his voice being permanent if he didn’t get proper help. Jaskier’s eyes flew open. He threw his hand out, not even sure what he was grasping for until he felt the witcher’s fingers close around his. 

“Fu--ck, Geralt,” Jaskier managed to choke out. 

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Geralt said seriously and then he was asking the elf for directions to the nearest mage, who was apparently a force to be reckoned with. 

“I’d really advise riding to the next town. The mage here is...” the elf trailed off, a light blush on his cheeks. 

Geralt shook his head.

“We’ll take our chances,” he grunted, helping Jaskier to his feet and leading him back to Roach. 

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Honestly, the only thing Jaskier really remembered was the orgy they stumbled into, because that certainly wasn’t something he saw every day. And of course, he remembered the mage. She was sitting up at the front of the room, clad all in black, with a delicate mask poised on her face. Easily the most beautiful woman Jaskier had ever seen. She introduced herself as Yennefer, eyes sweeping appreciatively over Geralt. Jaskier didn’t miss the way Geralt looked back at her. 

It was strange to feel jealous when he was slowly choking to death. Then Yennefer was turning her attention to him and gesturing for both of them to follow her. Geralt helped him to a room a fair distance from the festivities and got him settled into a lovely four poster bed. 

Jaskier reached for Geralt’s hand, gripping tightly as Yennefer began muttering some sort of spell and waving gentle hands over his body. 

_ I should have told him _ , Jaskier thought. His whole body felt like it was on fire, getting worse with every new word the mage uttered.  _ I should have told him _ .  _ Now I may never get the chance _ . 

The tears that had been welling up in Jaskier’s eyes spilled over his cheeks. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said worriedly, squeezing his hand harder, trying to keep him grounded. 

The bard opened his mouth, but of course nothing came out. And then, everything went black. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_ Jaskier blinked his eyes open slowly. Everything was far too bright. There were lush green trees in a circle around him and soft grass beneath his fingers. When he brought a hand to his throat, he found that the lump was gone and he was no longer struggling to breathe. He sat up slowly, smacking his lips. He was thirsty.  _

_ “Here you are, darling.”  _

_ Jaskier frowned down at the cup that was being offered to him, but took it anyway, taking a long drink. When he looked up to thank whoever it was who had handed it to him, his jaw dropped.  _

_ “Mother?” he asked.  _

_ The woman smiled, reaching out and touching Jaskier’s cheek.  _

_ “Hello, love,” she said warmly.  _

_ “I-I’m dreaming,” Jaskier said. It was the only explanation. Unless he was dead. Oh Melitele, he really hoped he wasn’t dead.  _

_ His mother nodded.  _

_ “Yes you are. You’re in a healing sleep,” she explained.  _

_ Jaskier took his mother’s hand in his, giving it a squeeze.  _

_ “I’ve missed you,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice.  _

_ “I’ve missed you too, Buttercup. So much,” she said, pulling him into a hug and pressing a kiss to his cheek when she pulled away. “How have you been? Has life treated you well?” she asked.  _

_ Jaskier wasn’t sure how to answer that. In some aspects yes. And in others no. He decided to focus on the biggest development, holding up his hand with a smile.  _

_ “I’ve got a thread now,” he said, wiggling his fingers for emphasis.  _

_ His mother smiled. The same sad smile she used to get when Jaskier asked her to tell him about his thread.  _

_ “You always did,” she told him.  _

_ Jaskier frowned.  _

_ “But...I thought the reason you never wanted to talk about it was because I didn’t have one.”  _

_ She shook her head.  _

_ “Every gift comes with a give and take. I couldn’t see yours, just as my mother couldn’t see mine. Just as I couldn’t see my own,” she said solemnly.  _

_ “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier asked, years of pent up despair finally bubbling to the surface. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”  _

_ “Oh, Buttercup, I wanted to, but there are things that the Goddess of Destiny demands that you discover for yourself. The gift has been passed down in our family for centuries. Somewhere along the way, the goddess changed the rules. She decided it wasn’t fair for us to be able to see our own string. That we should have to figure it out on our own, just like everyone else. So when the gift passed to my great, great, great, great, grandfather, she took his ability to see his own string. Only when we find the person we’re bound to, do we get to see the thread,” she explained.  _

_ Jaskier nodded slowly. He supposed that was fair. If he were a goddess charged with the destinies of every creature in the world, he’d want to mix it up every now and again too.  _

_ “So tell me, what’s she like?” His mother asked eagerly.  _

_ Jaskier fiddled with the hem of his shirt.  _

_ “He,” Jaskier corrected her. “He’s...he’s a witcher.”  _

_ Jaskier wasn’t sure what sort of reaction he expected, but his mother didn’t seem phased.  _

_ “I always knew your fated person would be special,” she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “I don’t envy you the fear you must feel whenever he goes up against a monster.”  _

_ It was true. Every time he watched Geralt swing his sword as some massive beast, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Another part of him, however small it might be, understood that Geralt was literally built for fighting monsters. That he was more than capable of taking care of himself. That didn’t stop Jaskier from worrying.  _

_ The world around him began to swim, a sense of dizziness washing over the bard.  _

_ “You’re waking up,” his mother said, trying to ease his panic.  _

_ “I-I don’t want to leave you,” Jaskier said, holding tighter to her hand.  _

_ She smiled one last sad smile.  _

_ “You have someone waiting for you,” she said simply, and then she was fading from view and the dream world was gone.  _

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jaskier woke with a start, breathing hard. He sat up quickly, pressing his hand to his head when the world spun. He could hear heated voices coming from the next room and easily recognized one of them as Geralt’s. Ignoring his nausea, Jaskier got to his feet and hurried down the hall toward the voices. He peered through the doorway and--oh dear. 

Yennefer had Geralt backed against a wall, a knife poised at his throat as she demanded that he make his last wish. The witcher was growling at her, something Jaskier couldn’t hear and the mage laughed, pressing the knife in harder. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried. 

Both parties turned to look at him. The look of relief on the witcher’s face was quickly replaced with a snarl. 

“Get out of here, now!” Geralt yelled as the candles lit around the room went out and the wind blew the windows right off their hinges. 

“But--

“Now!” Geralt shouted. 

Jaskier did as he was told, even though every part of him was screaming to stay and help. But really, how much good could he be against a mage. 

No sooner had Jaskier stumbled out the door, straight into the arms of the elf physician, than there was a loud explosion behind him. 

“No!” He cried, watching as the part of the castle he knew Geralt and Yennefer were in collapsed. 

The elf held him back with a surprisingly strong grip. 

“You mustn’t go in there! You could be crushed,” the elf said. 

Jaskier fought and fought until he couldn’t anymore. He slipped to his knees, hand over his chest and soft sobs already racking his body. 

“Gone,” he whispered, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “He’s gone.”

The elf crouched down next to him and placed a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, which the bard immediately swatted away. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want anything. What the hell was he supposed to do now? 

Jaskier stared at the thread around his finger, waiting for it to fade and then disappear forever. 

“They’re alive.” 

The words took a moment to register, but as soon as they did Jaskier was on his feet. Alive. Geralt was alive! He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to the window the elf was pointing to.  _ Oh goddess above, please let it be true _ !

Never before had Jaskier felt such joy simultaneously with heart break. Yes, Geralt was alive and breathing and for that Jaskier was thankful. Yennefer was alive too. Alive and currently straddling Geralt’s hips, her own moving in an unmistakable rhythm. Jaskier’s fingers sought his thread, his bottom lip trembling, watching as the love of his life fell for someone else. Because there was no mistaking it. From the moment Geralt laid eyes on Yennefer he’d been infatuated. 

Jaskier turned away from the window and walked briskly toward where Roach was patiently waiting. He grabbed his things quickly, slinging his lute over one shoulder and his pack over the other. 

“Where are you going?” the elf asked. 

Jaskier shook his head. 

“I don’t know. I-I just need some space,” he said lamely. 

“Your friend. He needs you. You should stay,” the elf pleaded. 

Jaskier snorted. 

“Maybe you ought to have another look through that window. I’m not who he needs,” Jaskier said. He was dripping with self pity and he didn’t care. 

Ignoring the elf’s protests, Jaskier turned on his heel and headed off to town. He paid a few coins to a traveling merchant to get him a ride to wherever the man was going. He truly didn’t care where he ended up for the moment. 

Jaskier wasn’t planning to stay away forever. He couldn’t. Even if Geralt had found someone he cared for, Jaskier still wanted to be in his life. But he needed time to get himself sorted out before he traveled with Geralt. Time to bury his feelings down deep. 

As fate would have it, he ran into Geralt a month or so later at some pub in a town in the middle of nowhere.  _ Fuck destiny _ , he thought when he saw Geralt sitting alone at a corner booth, just like he had been all those years ago in Posada. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier said, wincing at himself as he sat down across from the witcher. 

Geralt looked just as surprised at Jaskier’s presence as Jaskier was at the witcher’s. 

“You left.” 

Jaskier blinked in surprise. If he didn’t know better he’d think Geralt sounded hurt. 

“Yes, well, I had urgent business to attend to,” Jaskier said. It wasn’t entirely untrue. He may or may not have been invited back to Cintra to play at a certain Child Surprise’s birthday party. She was four years old and already the spitting image of her mother, Pavetta. Obviously, Jaskier wasn’t about to tell Geralt where he had been since the witcher was still pretending that he didn’t have any sort of responsibility toward the child. 

“Was quiet. Without you,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier laughed good naturedly. 

“Bet you enjoyed it then,” he teased. 

Geralt frowned at him. 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier figured that signaled the end of the conversation for a while, so he headed over to the bar to grab another drink and order some food. When he got back to the table Geralt was still frowning at him, but there was a determined look. 

“I didn’t mean what I said about your voice,” he said. 

Jaskier blinked at him. 

“Excuse me?” he asked. 

Geralt grit his teeth. 

“When I said...when I said I didn’t like your singing.” 

Well that was unexpected and it was doing things to Jaskier’s heart that it really shouldn’t be because he’d spent the last month trying not to think about Geralt at all. Granted he’d failed miserably, but he tried. 

“I just,” Geralt continued, looking like it pained him to talk in complete sentences. “I just wanted you to shut up because I was--

“Grumpy beyond all reason and in desperate need of a nap?” Jaskier offered. 

Geralt scowled. 

“...Yes.” 

Jaskier smiled and shook his head, taking a long swig of beer. 

“Honestly, Geralt, bygones. I knew you didn’t mean it. However, I do have the perfect way for you to make it up to me,” he said as an idea suddenly popped into his head. 

Geralt rolled his eyes, but gestured for Jaskier to continue. 

“An honest review. Tell me what you really think this time,” Jaskier said excited. 

Geralt blanched, a nervous look on his face. 

“Jaskier, I--

“Come on! An honest review and we’ll forget the whole thing! How’s my singing?” he asked, resting his chin on folded hands and looking expectantly at the witcher. 

“It’s...nice,” Geralt grumbled. 

“Nice? The best you can do is nice?” Jaskier asked incredulously. 

Geralt sighed. 

“I don’t know much about music or singing but--but I like yours,” Geralt said, looking uncomfortable at being so open with his thoughts. 

Jaskier smiled and, against his better judgement, reached across the table to give Geralt’s hand a squeeze. 

“Thank you,” he said warmly. 

Geralt didn’t swat Jaskier’s hand away, but instead turned his own hand over so he could squeeze Jaskier’s hand back.  Jaskier blushed when Geralt's finger brushed over his thread, unprepared for the way it made his heart flutter. The witcher's lip twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. 

“You’re welcome.” 


	5. Chapter Four

Strictly speaking, Jaskier didn’t  _ need _ to play in pubs anymore. He had been picking up steady work playing at banquets and christenings in the towns that Geralt took work in. Across the continent people knew the pair of them just by looking, since Geralt stood out in every crowd and Jaskier was practically his personal bard. There was something about playing in the pubs attached to the inns they stayed in that brought Jaskier a level of comfort. If nothing else, it kept him distracted from worrying about Geralt if he was gone for too long. 

Jaskier had just finished playing in a small pub just outside of Aidern and was collecting the few coins that had been thrown his way, when he saw a familiar face coming toward him. 

Oh hell. 

“Julian! It’s been ages!” the man cried, throwing his arms around Jaskier. 

“Valdo, good to see you,” Jaskier said, a fake smile plastered on his face as the other man pulled away. 

Valdo, seemingly unaware of Jaskier’s displeasure, beamed at him and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Come, have a drink with me old friend!” Valdo cried. 

Jaskier prayed for Geralt to come through the door dripping with monster guts, if only to spare him from having a drink with the most insufferable prick Jaskier ever had the displeasure of knowing. Unfortunately the witcher made no such appearance and therefore, Jaskier was forced into what was sure to be the worst drink of his life. 

“I hear you’ve made quite a name for yourself. Following a witcher around the continent. You do find inspiration in the strangest places,” Valdo teased, smirking at Jaskier from over his mug. 

Jaskier smiled tersely. Oh how he longed to truly give Valdo what for. To remind the “traveling troubadour” of just how much he used to enjoy the things that inspired Jaskier. So much so that he’d nicked Jaskier’s song book shortly before their final concert at Oxenfurt and passed off Jaskier’s piece as his own. A song he received heaps of praise for and that quite literally launched his career. Two weeks after graduation Valdo was playing in Cintra and Jaskier was having stale bread rolls pelted at him.

“What can I say? I go where the muse takes me,” Jaskier said, downing the contents of his mug and waving to the barmaid for another. 

“How many years has it been since we’ve seen each other,” Valdo asked, stroking his beard.

“Um, I think--

“Over a decade I’d say, from the look of those crows feet!” he guffawed, laughing so hard he nearly knocked his drink over. 

Jaskier grit his teeth. He knew for a fact that he looked good for his age. In large part because he was tied to a witcher which means he hadn’t aged a day, physically, since he and Geralt met. But Valdo had always been a bit of a bully and apparently hadn’t grown out of it since their university days. 

“Careful, dear,” Jaskier said innocently. “Those words are bold for a man with grey in his mustache.” 

Valdo’s smile slipped from his face and his eyes narrowed. Jaskier could kick himself. He should have known better. He shouldn’t have played into Valdo’s bullshit. It never ended well. The one time he’d tried to call the man out back at university, he’d wound up with a handful of his personal poems posted in the student commons for all to read. Not to mention Valdo had cut a hole in his favorite doublet. Truly a childish man. But now that he had a good reputation as a bard for all occasions, Jaskier may very well end up with his name getting dragged through the mud. It wouldn’t matter that Jaskier was just as famous now. Valdo had been around for longer and he certainly knew how to use his reputation to his advantage. 

“Well...I think that’s enough catching up for at least the next decade,” Valdo sniffed, getting to his feet. “If you wouldn’t mind paying for the drink, I’ve got a party to attend.” 

Jaskier watched as the man sauntered out of the pub, waiting until there was no chance Valdo would turn around with a dramatic flourish of his cape to say something else snotty, before he let his head fall forward onto the table with a loud thwack. Oh how he detested that man. 

While much of Jaskier’s time at Oxenfurt had been enjoyable, Valdo Marx had certainly done a number on him. He’d only been a kid, fresh off of running away from his noble title and eager to spend a year taking classes with new professors and not just his cranky old tutor who had no appreciation for the arts. And Valdo...Valdo was... _ charming _ , to say the least. Jaskier was smitten with him for a time, until he realized that Valdo had only gotten close to him so he could steal Jaskier’s songs. 

Half an hour and one more pint of ale later Jaskier headed upstairs to the room he’d gotten for himself and Geralt that evening. It seemed the witcher wouldn’t be back for a while yet and Jaskier was eager for a bath. Encounters with Valdo always left him feeling a little dirty, and not in the fun way. 

Jaskier stripped out of his clothes quickly, draping them on the back of a chair, and slipped into the warm bath water. Normally he sang to himself when he bathed, or at the very least hummed, but he didn’t feel like it tonight. Twenty minutes talking with Valdo Marx and he immediately felt like he was eighteen again; scared and excited and in awe of everything new about the world that he only just discovered. And lonely. Very lonely, desperate for someone to love him. 

The bard sighed, wiping impatiently at the few tears that had escaped. He took comfort in the fact that he was a far superior musician to Valdo, but it didn’t do much to lessen the ache in his heart. 

And speaking of his heart, Geralt chose that moment to burst into their room. It was one of those rare occasions where he wasn’t covered in monster guts. In fact, there was no evidence that he’d been in a fight at all, aside from how exhausted he looked. 

Jaskier splashed his face with water quickly so Geralt wouldn’t notice the tear tracks on his cheeks. 

“How’d it go?” he asked, putting on the cheeriest voice he could muster. 

It must not have been very convincing because Geralt paused in taking off his armor to look over at the bard. Jaskier wondered if Geralt could smell the sadness and frustration on him from his encounter with Valdo. He hoped not. 

“False alarm,” Geralt grunted, offering no further explanation as he shrugged out of his shirt. Jaskier tried not to stare at his bare chest, but hey, he was only human. There were several scars that mapped Geralt’s abdomen that Jaskier had yet to coax the witcher into telling him about. 

For once, Jaskier didn’t pry, He picked up the soap and aimlessly rubbed it on his chest, not really paying attention to what he was doing. 

“What’s wrong?” 

The question startled Jaskier, the soap slipping from his fingers and splashing into the water. He retrieved it quickly and set it in the little dish next to the tub. 

“Nothing,” he lied, sliding further into the tub in an attempt to hide himself, even though he knew it wouldn’t do much good. 

When Geralt didn’t press further, Jaskier let his eyes slip shut. He let his mind drift to his music, trying to recall the ballad he’d started working on a few days ago. In fact, he was so caught up trying to remember a particularly clever rhyme that he didn’t notice Geralt had pulled up and stool and was sitting behind his head. 

“Soap,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier flinched, yelping in surprise at how close Geralt’s voice was. 

“Geralt, what--

“Soap,” Geralt said again, holding out his hands and looking at Jaskier with a look of impatience. 

Jaskier picked up the soap from where he had left it and handed it to the witcher. 

“Sit forward,” Geralt said. 

Again the bard did as he was asked, sliding forward in the tub a bit. Surely Geralt wasn’t planning to--

An entire bucket of water was upended over his head. Jaskier spluttered, wiping his face and turning to glare at Geralt over his shoulder. 

“What exactly is it that you think you’re doing?” he asked. 

Geralt stared pointedly at him. 

“Washing your hair,” he said simply, as if Jaskier was the one doing something out of character. As if it was something they always did. 

Jaskier’s eyes softened a bit at the determined look on Geralt’s face, as if the witcher was approaching the task the same way he did a monster fight. Which would explain why he used the element of surprise. 

“Okay, a couple of tips,” Jaskier said, leaning over the tub and picking up a smaller cup. “Fill this with water instead of the bucket. It’ll feel less like you’re trying to drown me.”

Geralt grunted, moving toward Jaskier with the bar of soap in hand. The bard stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. 

“Rub the soap on your hands first, then put it in my hair. It works up into a better lather that way. Seriously, how did you ever survive without me? Better question. How did your hair survive without me?” he teased. 

Geralt glared at him, but did as Jaskier had instructed, getting his hands nice and soapy before returning his attention to the bard’s hair. 

He worked his fingers into Jaskier’s hair in a slow, circular motion. The same way Jaskier did when he washed Geralt’s hair. Ah. So at least some of the process he’d paid attention to. Jaskier bit his lip to keep from letting out anything close to a moan when Geralt’s thumb brushed behind his ear. 

“Close your eyes,” Geralt murmured, waiting until Jaskier had done so before he poured a cup of water over Jaskier’s head to rinse out the soap. 

“I ran into an old friend from university, and I use the word friend in a very broad sense,” Jaskier explained as Geralt worked, shivering when the witcher’s fingers pressed into his neck. “Threw me off a bit. I wasn’t expecting to see him ever again. In fact, I hoped I wouldn’t.” 

Geralt hummed in response, leaning back far too soon for Jaskier’s liking. He had half a mind to ask Geralt to continue, but the witcher was already holding out a towel for him, so he reluctantly stepped out of the tub. Jaskier wrapped it around his waist quickly, not sure why he was suddenly embarrassed at his nakedness. 

“Thank you. For washing my hair. Um, it was nice,” Jaskier said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Geralt shrugged. 

“You always do it for me.” 

That was fair. It still amazed him how easy it was now to get Geralt to sit still in the bath while he dealt with his hair. When they’d first started traveling together it had taken everything short of threatening to kick Geralt from the room and force him to sleep in the cold to get the witcher into the bath. 

“What did he say to you.This...friend?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier huffed, fastening his pants and shaking his head. 

“It was ridiculous, Geralt. He implied I was starting to look old,” Jaskier said indignantly. “Honestly, I’d like to see him travel with a witcher for almost twenty years and see how--

“Twenty years?” Geralt said, suddenly paying much more attention than he had been before. 

Jaskier blanched. 

Oh shit. 

“Um, yes. Well, not quite. Sixteen to be precise. Anyway, the point is, I think I’m aging pretty well wouldn’t you say?” Jaskier was rambling now, trying to end this conversation as quickly as he could. He’d never drawn attention to his age. It helped that Geralt never asked how old he was but--

“How old were you when we met?” Geralt asked, accusatory. 

He’d gotten to his feet and was advancing on the bard. Jaskier met Geralt step for step, moving backwards until his back was pressed against the wall. 

“T-twenty-two,” Jaskier stuttered. 

Geralt’s lips curled into a snarl as he pressed his arm over Jaskier’s chest, pinning him against the wall. 

“What. Are. You?” Geralt asked between gritted teeth. 

Jaskier held his hands up. 

“Human! Human, I’m human! I swear. D-do that weird witcher thing where you smell me to double check. I-I don’t mind. Please, just, I promise. I’m human,” Jaskier said.

Geralt dragged his nose up the column of Jaskier’s throat, inhaling deeply. The glare was still firmly in place when he pulled away, but he looked mildly placated. Surely they’d been traveling together long enough for Geralt to know Jaskier wasn’t a monster. His medallion would have done that weird thing it does whenever a  _ real _ monster is nearby. But if it would make Geralt feel better to check again, up close and personal this time, then Jaskier didn’t mind. 

“You don’t look thirty-eight. You...You look exactly the same as you did when we met,” Geralt said slowly. 

Jaskier tried to think of a lie, but he couldn’t. The thread around his finger itched, a constant reminder that Jaskier had put off telling him for too long. Still, with Geralt falling into bed with Yennefer whenever the occasion called for it, this was hardly the time. Call it selfish or cowardly I but Jaskier found he still couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. 

“Please. Please don’t ask me why. I-I’m not ready to tell you. I’m not ready to have you look at me differently,” Jaskier pleaded. 

Several emotions flickered across Geralt’s face at once before his usually stoic expression slipped back into place. 

“You’re shaking,” Geralt said. 

“Yes well, it’s not every day I get pinned to the wall by a witcher is it?” 

Geralt abruptly let go of Jaskier, putting some space between the two of them. 

“I didn’t...” the witcher trailed off, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.” 

Jaskier shook his head, moving toward Geralt on instinct. He crouched in front of him, resting his hands on Geralt’s knees, waiting for Geralt to meet his eye. 

“You didn’t scare me. You could never scare me, okay?” he asked. 

Geralt frowned. 

“But--

“It’s not you I was scared of. It’s me. I-I’m afraid if I tell you why I’m like this then you’ll send me away and I...I’m just not ready. I’m sorry. I really am only human. I’m not dangerous. Not even close. I mean I--

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. 

“Yes?” the bard asked nervously. 

“Lets just go to sleep.” 

Jaskier nodded. He got to his feet and moved to his own bed, watching as Geralt moved about the room, blowing out the candles. 

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier said. Their beds were close enough together he could make out the outline of Geralt’s body even in the dark. The witcher sighed, rolling so he was facing away from Jaskier. 

“Goodnight.” 


	6. Chapter Five

“No.” 

“Come on, Geralt! I promise I’ll stay out of the way this time,” Jaskier pleaded. 

The witcher fixed him with a look, and okay, maybe it was fair that Geralt didn’t want him to come on this hunt considering what happened last time Jaskier was there during a selkimore fight. The bard had made far too much noise and had, unwittingly, ended up being used as live bait. Even running for his life he wasn’t as scared as he probably should have been. He was confident Geralt would get the beast before it got him. Of course when he’d told Geralt this the witcher had scoffed and called him a fool. 

Jaskier had gotten pretty good at sweet talking Geralt into letting him come along on his hunts, but when the witcher put his foot down, his decision was usually final. The bard sighed, and pulled out his notebook, grumbling under his breath as he jotted down an idea for a jig about how stubborn witcher’s were. 

“Shouldn’t take long,” Geralt said, securing his swords to his back. 

Jaskier didn’t answer, scowling at his paper and writing all the more furiously. He was being childish, but as far as he was concerned, he had every right to be. Geralt couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like for Jaskier when he was forced to stay behind. The bard always spent the whole time worrying himself half to death, only to plaster on a bright smile and crack some joke when Geralt came back covered in whatever his latest kill was. It was exhausting. Jaskier spared a quick look at the witcher, surprised when he saw that Geralt was looking back at him. 

“I’ll be back by nightfall,” Geralt said, his hand on the door, clearly waiting for a response. That was a relatively new development. For years Geralt grunted things at Jaskier and left without waiting for the bard to say anything back, but now...now his hand was still on the door and he was staring at Jaskier like he  _ wanted _ him to say something. 

“Be careful,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt nodded. He started to leave, but had barely made it a step out the door when he stopped again. 

“Don’t—

He started, grimacing like the words were hard to get out. Jaskier waited patiently for him to continue. 

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” Geralt finished. 

Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Not exactly a heartfelt farewell, but Jaskier had long since learned how to read between the lines when it came to Geralt. It was easier for Geralt to snark such a comment at him than to say what he really meant; _ be safe _ . 

“I won’t. I have no intention of even going downstairs to play this evening. Got lots to work on,” Jaskier said reassuringly, rapping his quill against the page without thinking and consequently smudging some of what he’d just written. He was so busy swearing at his mistake that he didn’t notice the soft smile on Geralt’s face, or the fond shake of his head. 

True to his word, Jaskier stayed put. He wasn’t lying when he said he had a lot to work on. It had been a while since he’d written anything new. Well, he’d  _ written _ plenty, but he was having a hard time finishing any of the songs he started. Granted he’d had a lot on his mind lately. Like the fact that they hadn’t seen Yennefer in almost six months. 

It was the longest they’d gone without running into the witch and Jaskier tried not to read too much into the fact that Geralt didn’t seem to mind her absence. Normally when they hadn’t seen her in a while, the witcher got antsy and he was quicker to anger than usual. But not this time. In fact when Jaskier brought her up Geralt had only shrugged and said Yennefer was probably busy. It was strange. 

Speaking of strange, the hours had already begun to fly by and a quick look out the window told Jaskier it was already well past nightfall and there was still no sign of Geralt. Jaskier frowned. The witcher was nothing if not prompt. He’d been hunting monsters for long enough now that he was scarily good at knowing how long a hunt would take. Generally, when he said he’d be back by nightfall, he was right on time. 

Jaskier bit his lip, trying to focus on the pages in front of him. Maybe Geralt had just been a little bit off with his timing. Maybe the hunt was more difficult than he thought it would be. Or maybe, something had gone wrong. 

Jaskier waited for as long as he could stand it before he was getting to his feet and yanking on his boots and doublet. He snagged the knife Geralt had given him for protection and tucked it into his sleeve. He wasn’t as adept at fighting as the witcher was, but Geralt had taught him the basics of hand to hand combat. Hopefully Geralt was fine and the hunt had just gone on a little long, but something in Jaskier’s gut told him that wasn’t the case. 

“It’s not safe to go out this late,” the serving girl called to him from behind the bar. 

“Got anything other than selkimores lurking in the woods?” Jaskier asked. He really hoped the answer was no. 

The girl nodded, looking around the empty pub as if someone might be listening. 

“Bandits,” she said quickly. 

Jaskier shrugged. 

“I’m sure my friend can handle a couple of--

“Bandits who don’t take kindly to witchers,” the girl said pointedly. 

Well that certainly set Jaskier’s teeth on edge. Geralt could handle bandits if the occasion called for it. But what if said bandits had set a trap? What if the selkimore that Geralt went out in search of was just a ruse to get him alone in the woods? It wasn’t impossible to get the jump on a witcher, even if it was rare. 

Jaskier’s fear increased tenfold when he left the inn and immediately saw Roach waiting for him. She snorted at him, nudging at his shoulder as he came closer. 

“He’s got himself into trouble hasn’t he?” Jaskier asked. 

Roach stamped at the ground and snorted again. 

“Alright. Well, I guess it’s going to be me saving his skin for a change,” Jaskier said, stepping into the stirrup and hefting himself onto Roach’s back. He wasn’t as practiced a rider as Geralt, but it seemed like Roach didn’t need much guidance as she took off into the forest. 

“He’s fine,” Jaskier said, patting Roach’s neck as she galloped at a speed that had the bard’s stomach lurching. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s a witcher. Witchers aren’t felled by average bandits.” 

Whether he was trying to reassure Roach or himself, Jaskier wasn’t sure, but either way he couldn’t seem to stop muttering assurances. He replayed his last conversation with Geralt over and over in his head, wishing he hadn’t been in such a poor mood. At least he’d told Geralt to be safe. His guilt would be ten fold if he’d stayed quiet as he had been tempted to do. 

Not a half hour later and Roach began to slow her pace. Jaskier looked around, squinting in the dark. He really should have brought a torch or something. He could see a fire flickering not too far from where they were and he gave a tug on Roach’s reins to get her to come to a full stop before sliding from her back and onto the ground. Roach nudged him with her nose as he passed. 

“I know you want to help,” Jaskier said quietly, running his fingers through her mane. “But if he’s in trouble, I might need the element of surprise on my side. I’ll call for you if I need you, I promise.” 

Roach snorted and nudged him with her nose again, though it was affection this time. Jaskier smiled and with one final scratch behind Roach’s ear, he crept toward the fire light. As he got closer, he realized it was a campsite and, judging from the looks of it, an abandoned one at that. Still, just to be safe, he stayed out of sight. It was dark afterall, there could be people and he just couldn’t see--

Jaskier’s heart stopped. 

Even in the dark there was no mistaking that silver mop of hair. There, tied to a tree not thirty paces from him, was Geralt. From what Jaskier was able to make out, the witcher had been stripped of his armor and his shirt. His arms were bound and tied up above his head and there was a blindfold across his eyes. Jaskier didn’t need to be able to see to know that the man was injured. If he wasn’t, there was no doubt in the bard’s mind that Geralt would have gotten himself free. But where were his captors?

Another quick look around confirmed what Jaskier already knew. There was no one there but the witcher, so Jaskier moved forward.

Geralt’s head snapped up at the sound of footsteps and he bared his teeth in an angry snarl. 

“Decide to finish me off after all?” he asked, straining against his restraints. 

“As much as I find you irritating from time to time, I’ve never thought to kill you,” Jaskier said. 

The sneer fell from Geralt’s face. 

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” he breathed. 

Jaskier’s heart ached. There was relief in Geralt’s voice and, dare he say it, joy. 

“Bet you wish you’d brought me along now,” Jaskier grumbled. He was thankful to find the witcher alive, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a little peeved at being left behind. 

Geralt shook his head. 

“No. If you had been here they would have killed you.” 

Jaskier shrugged, then realized Geralt still had the blindfold on and wouldn’t be able to see him. 

“You wouldn’t have let them kill me,” he said confidently.

Geralt hummed, but offered no other information about who had done this to him. 

Jaskier definitely wanted the details on what exactly happened, because he couldn’t imagine any ordinary humans being able to get the drop on Geralt. He certainly couldn’t see a bunch of bandits managing to capture Geralt only to have a change of heart and decide to leave him alive. But he needed to get Geralt out of here first. When he reached for the ropes around Geralt’s wrists, the witcher’s breath hitched. 

“What? What’s the matter? Did that hurt? I’m sorry, I’m just trying to--

Geralt cut him off with a quick shake of his head. 

“I’m fine. Just...untie me quickly,” Geralt said. 

He sounded off which made Jaskier hesitate, but when Geralt’s hands flexed against his bonds the bard moved to untie them. 

“The girl at the inn mentioned bandits who weren’t overly fond of witchers. Is that who did this?” Jaskier asked, grunting with the effort it took to get the knots untied. He suddenly remembered the knife up his sleeve and slid it out to make the job easier. 

“Yes. They set a trap. Thought it was for the selkimore, but it was for me,” Geralt muttered, rubbing at his sore wrists now that they were free. 

Jaskier reached for the blindfold, but Geralt caught him by the wrist. 

“Don’t,” he said warningly. 

Jaskier frowned. 

“Geralt, tell me what’s wrong,” he said, already missing the warmth of Geralt’s hand when he let go of the bard’s wrist. 

“Potions,” Geralt said quietly. 

“What?”

“They force fed me a couple of my potions. T-Too many to take at once,” he explained. 

Jaskier nodded. 

“And what’s that got to do with the blindfold?” he asked. 

Geralt sighed. 

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said, voice smaller than Jaskier had ever heard it. 

Jaskier knew that the potions had different effects on Geralt. He’d seen many of them in action and while they often made Geralt stronger and faster, he couldn’t remember any of them making him look different. Still, the idea that he could ever be afraid of Geralt was laughable. He reached for the blindfold again. 

“Jaskier--

“Let me,” the bard said, keeping his fingers on the edges of the blindfold as he waited for permission. 

After what seemed like forever, Geralt finally nodded. Jaskier carefully lifted the blindfold. 

Admittedly, he was a little taken aback at first. He’d grown used to the inhuman gold of Geralt’s eyes, but now they were pitch black in their entirety, not a hint of an iris nor the whites of his eyes visible. Sure, it was a little unsettling, but it was hardly anything that would make Jaskier run for the hills. 

“I’ve seen worse,” Jaskier said simply, patting Geralt’s shoulder and getting to his feet. 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. 

“You’re not...scared?” 

Jaskier opened his mouth to tell Geralt how ridiculous the notion was, but the words died on his tongue. Geralt was looking at the ground, hunched in on himself like he was trying to make himself smaller and less intimidating. It was a question that he genuinely feared the answer to. Jaskier stepped closer to the witcher, offering him a hand to help him up. 

“For the last time,” he started, grunting with the effort it took to get Geralt up off the ground. “I have never been, nor will I ever be, afraid of you.” 

Geralt swayed on his feet and Jaskier was quick to loop an arm around his back, huffing under his weight. He tried to ignore the fact that Geralt was pressed against him in all his bare chested glory, because honestly it was the least sexy scenario Jaskier could imagine. Geralt was bleeding for Melitele’s sake. 

“I told you not to do anything stupid,” Geralt said suddenly. 

Jaskier frowned. 

“My turning up to save you counts as doing something stupid?” he asked. 

“Yes.”

Jaskier snorted. 

“Well, I’m nothing if not consistent. If I actually did everything you told me, you’d get bored and you know it.” 

When Geralt stumbled, Jaskier instinctively held on tighter, not missing the soft groan that Geralt let out when Jaskier’s fingers dug into his hip. Well that was interesting. 

“Geralt...there’s something you’re not telling me,” Jaskier mused, thanking every goddess he could think of when he saw Roach coming toward them. She truly was the best horse. 

“The potions. When they’re combined like that they make me...sensitive,” the witcher grudgingly admitted. 

Jaskier spared a glance at Geralt’s face, jaw dropping when he saw that the other man was blushing. 

“Senses are too heightened. Everything sounds, smells,  _ feels _ , too much,” Geralt managed, panting with the effort it took to keep himself upright. Jaskier adjusted his hold again, his own face flushing when Geralt groaned again. 

Both of them seemed content to ignore the fact that every time Jaskier touched Geralt, the witcher shivered or moaned or, when Jaskier had patted his thigh once he was safely on Roach’s back,  _ whimpered _ . Jaskier hefted himself up into the saddle in front of Geralt, tensing when the witcher wound his arms around his waist.    
  


“Don’t wanna fall off,” Geralt slurred, his face pressed into Jaskier’s back. 

Jaskier nodded, placing one of his hands on top of Geralt’s and holding tight. Geralt hummed, snuggling closer to the bard and oh, Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was in heaven or hell. 

“Warm,” Geralt said stupidly, his breath fanning across the back of Jaskier’s neck. 

Hell. 

Definitely hell. 

By the time they reached the inn, Jaskier’s face was on fire. Apparently Geralt got cuddly when he was doped up on too many potions. He’d spent practically the entire ride nuzzling into Jaskier’s neck and rubbing soothing circles into Jaskier’s ribs with his thumbs. It was maddening. 

By some small miracle, the pub was empty when they went inside, so they didn’t attract any attention as Jaskier half dragged the injured witcher to their room. 

Jaskier got Geralt settled on the bed, stomach dropping when he finally got a good look at the witcher’s injuries. 

There was a cut across his forehead that was bleeding a little too much for Jaskier’s liking, but he knew from experience patching Geralt up that head wounds always looked worse than they were. Other than that his face was relatively unscathed, except for a small cut on his bottom lip. His torso was peppered in fresh bruises and cuts, some of which were clearly deep. Truly, he looked terrible. 

Jaskier was mortified to feel his eyes filling with tears. He turned away to grab a washcloth and get it wet in the bath that neither of them had gotten around to using. It would be better to have warm water, but cold would have to do for now. Hopefully, Geralt would be too out of it to notice--

“You’re crying.”

Ah. Apparently not. 

Jaskier shook his head, wiping at the tears and moving to press the cloth to the wound on Geralt’s forehead. The witcher caught his wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

Jaskier huffed a shaky laugh. 

“What’s wrong? Geralt, look at yourself! Look what they did to you! A-and then they just left you there where anything could have gotten you and--

“That was the point,” Geralt said, sounding much more lucid now than he had on their ride back. “Leave me bleeding in the woods for the selkimore or the spirits or whatever they thought was out there.” 

Jaskier’s blood boiled. How dare they do such a thing to  _ his  _ witcher? To his  _ soulmate _ . He had never understood why witcher’s were hated so much. They helped people. They killed the things that went bump in the night. Rescued entire villages from torment. Yet they were treated with cruelty and hate. It was--it was--

The bard’s thoughts were abruptly cut off when Geralt gently pressed his palm against Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a couple of stray tears. 

“Idiot,” Geralt said, though he sounded fond. “No one cries for a witcher.” 

Jaskier curled his fingers around Geralt’s wrist, leaning into his touch. He let his fingers drift upwards to cover Geralt’s hand with his own, allowing himself for one indulgent moment to softly trace the thread around the witcher’s pinky finger. 

“I do,” Jaskier whispered. 

Geralt’s eyes, still black but starting to return to normal, were wide. His gaze flickered down to Jaskier’s mouth. He leaned in, so close that their noses brushed. Jaskier held his breath, afraid that even the sound of his breathing would shatter the tender moment. He watched Geralt’s eyes flutter closed and was about to follow suit when-- 

“O-oh Melitele’s tits, Geralt, that’s a lot of blood,” Jaskier stuttered, eyes catching on the steady stream of blood that was dripping down Geralt’s face from his forehead. He fumbled with the cloth that was still in his hand, pressing it firmly over the wound. 

Geralt hissed, but said nothing. The potions must be starting to wear off because he no longer shuddered at the tiniest brush of Jaskier’s fingers against his skin. On the one hand it made it much easier to patch Geralt up, but on the other hand, Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance to make Geralt tremble under his touch again. 

No sooner had Jaskier finished patching up Geralt’s wounds than the witcher collapsed backwards onto the bed. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Jaskier smiled when Geralt snuffled softly in his sleep and buried his face further into the pillow. The man had no right to be so adorable. It wasn’t fair to Jaskier’s heart. 

Sleep was a long way off for the bard. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet. But he was exhausted underneath it and found himself unable to do more than lay in his own bed and fiddle with his thread. 

Keeping his secret was getting to be too much. It wasn’t fair to Geralt. Hell, it wasn’t fair to himself either. Sooner or later he was going to have to tell Geralt, but the thought still terrified him. 

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if the circumstances had been different; had Geralt’s head not started bleeding more profusely, would the witcher have kissed him?

Jaskier closed his eyes, replaying the moment over and over again; Geralt’s nose pressed against his, a gentle hand on his cheek, the other man’s warm breath against his lips. What other reason could he have for being so close?

If Geralt had nearly kissed him that had to mean something. 

Didn’t it?


	7. Chapter Six

Geralt didn’t mention the almost kiss, so Jaskier didn’t either. As soon as the witcher’s injuries were healed, or rather as soon as Geralt decided to ignore Jaskier’s protests and started packing, they were on their way again. Any thoughts Jaskier had about telling Geralt the truth were put on the back burner when they came across a man looking for a witcher to join his team on a dragon hunt.

“Geralt, uh, I know you’re a big strong witcher and everything, but a dragon?” Jaskier asked, throwing a smile to Borch and the two gorgeous women traveling with him. They seemed lovely people, but in all his years traveling with Geralt, he’d never seen the witcher face off against anything like a dragon. 

Geralt shook his head, his face solemn. 

“I’m not interested,” he said. 

Jaskier thanked his lucky stars and was about to get up to play a few songs to see if he couldn’t earn a coin or two when he caught sight of a familiar face by the door. 

Yennefer.

“Oh gods,” he murmured, eyes immediately flickering back to Geralt, praying that he hadn’t seen the mage yet. 

No such luck of course. Geralt’s eyes were wide, fixed on the witch and the corner of his mouth twitched into a soft smile. Jaskier resisted the urge to rip his own hair out as he watched Yennefer make her way over to them. He was surprised when she came to him first, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. 

“Good to see you, Jaskier,” she said, warmth in her voice that Jaskier hadn’t been expecting. 

Not one to be outdone, Jaskier brought her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, bowing over dramatically. 

“Always a pleasure, Yennefer,” he said, shocked at how much he meant the words. Sure, watching Geralt follow Yennefer around like a puppy made Jaskier’s heartache more than anything, but he couldn’t deny that the mage was worthy of Geralt’s affections. Somewhere along the line their biting remarks toward each other had morphed into good natured banter. Still though, the warmth in her eyes was certainly new. 

“Dramatic as always I see,” she said, smirking at him before her gaze moved to Geralt. “It’s been a while. Anything new I should know about?” she asked pointedly. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes. 

“No. Nothing,” he said. The fond smile from before was gone and now he looked almost nervous. 

Jaskier got the feeling he was missing something important, but since neither Geralt or Yennefer were big on sharing, he resigned himself to the fact that he would remain in the dark. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Jaskier asked. 

Yennefer opened her mouth to say something, but Geralt cut her off. 

“She’s after the dragon.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. If Yennefer was going on this little dragon hunt, there was no way Geralt was going to sit on the sidelines. The witcher met his eye and arched a brow; a silent question. Jaskier sighed, but nodded his head. Geralt turned back to Borch. 

“We’re in.” 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jaskier stared angrily at the fire in front of him. 

Geralt was in Yennefer’s tent. 

It was inevitable, as it always was when they crossed paths with the mage, that Geralt would end up in her bed. After all these years, it didn’t hurt any less than it had the first time. 

Jaskier picked up a stick from the ground, snapped it in two, and tossed it into the flames. He watched as it burned and crackled, telling himself that the tears in his eyes were from the smoke and not because his heart was breaking  _ again _ . 

It occurred to him that there was really no reason for him to stay. Geralt had Yennefer and while Jaskier knew the witcher cared about him, much as the man was loath to admit it, there was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that even if he told Geralt about the thread, the witcher would choose Yennefer over him. Perhaps it would be better if he took his leave now, before Geralt and Yennefer made things official and spent the rest of their lives following each other all over the continent with Jaskier trailing pathetically behind. No. He wouldn’t be the unwanted third wheel in their relationship. 

Jaskier pulled his pack over to him and dug around for a moment before procuring a letter. It was from one of his old professors at Oxenfurt, who had once again written to offer him a position teaching music when classes resumed in the fall. He’d gotten the letter a few weeks back and had no intention of accepting the offer, but now...now it might be the best thing to do, not only for himself but also for Geralt. 

It wasn’t too dark out yet. If Jaskier packed now and kept his pace quick, he could reasonably make it down the mountain before night truly fell. Jaskier thought back to before he met Geralt. He’d spent many a night sleeping under the stars with only his lute for company. It would be a difficult transition, but if he did it once, he could do it again. 

Oxenfurt would be a lovely change of pace. Bright and eager students, ready and willing to learn. He would have plenty of time to work on his own music in addition to helping a new generation find their own unique sounds. Yes. Oxenfurt sounded lovely. 

The only thing missing would be Geralt. 

Jaskier shook his head and tucked the letter back into his pack. Starting now he was going to do his best not to think about the witcher. He’d ignore the thread. He’d ignore his heart. It would be hard to ignore that he wouldn’t age because whether or not and and Geralt were together, their lives were still tied together. It meant he wouldn’t be able to stay at Oxenfurt for longer than ten years or so before people truly started to take notice. But he would worry about that particular problem later. Now he needed to get a move on if he wanted to make it down the mountain before dark. 

Packing wasn’t difficult, since Jaskier had traveled lighter for this particular hunt than he usually did. He rolled his bedroll and blanket up together haphazardly and hooked them to his pack, slinging it over one shoulder, his lute across the other. He glanced around the campsite for sight of Roach so he could say goodbye, but remembered that Geralt had left her behind for her own safety. Perhaps he’d find her waiting at the base of the mountain. 

It seemed a little melodramatic to leave without so much as a word to Geralt, but Jaskier was tired. He was tired of being too scared to tell the witcher that they were bound. And he was tired of being left behind like an unwanted pair of boots every time Yennefer showed up. He glanced toward the mage’s tent. 

“Take care of him,” he said quietly before departing the campsite. 

None of the other troupes seeking the dragon paid him any mind as he left and for that he was thankful. The last thing he needed was for one of them to alert Geralt of his departure. 

About a half mile down the mountain Jaskier was already getting tired. And cold. He hadn’t realized how much colder it was going to be now that the sun was going down. The doublet he was wearing was chosen for fashion, not practicality. Still, he pressed on, determined to put as much distance between himself and Geralt as humanly possible. 

A little further and he came across a river that looked clear and inviting. Jaskier set his things against a rock and pulled off his boots before wading into the water. He took a deep breath in and let it go slowly. It had been a long time since he’d been alone and despite how much he hated the quiet, he had to admit it was peaceful. He was so distracted listening to the calming sound of the water that he didn’t notice the surface beginning to bubble not twenty feet from him. 

The sight of the drowner however was enough to pull him from his revelry and he stumbled backwards, landing flat on his ass in the water, mouth agape. 

“Oh shit!” he cried, scrambling backwards, trying to get out of the water before the drowner could get a hold of him. 

And speaking of things getting a hold of him-- a second later the bard was yanked backwards and out of the water, smashing into something--or someone--solid. He didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. 

“Geralt, I--

“Shut up,” the witcher hissed, shoving Jaskier further up the bank as he pulled out his sword and charged the angry drowner. 

Jaskier hastily yanked his socks and shoes back on, watching as Geralt took the creature down with ease. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, pointedly ignoring the sound of the witcher’s footsteps coming closer as he reached for his things. He was stopped by a strong hand closing around his arm and pulling him around to face the witcher. 

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Geralt spat. 

Jaskier tried and failed to wrench his arm from Geralt’s grip. 

“I was just...I was going for a walk. I needed a bit of space from the campsite,” Jaskier lied. 

Geralt’s eyes fell on Jaskier’s meager belongings, narrowed into slits when they landed back on the bard. 

“You were leaving,” he said slowly.

Jaskier’s shoulders dropped as he sighed. There was no point in lying. Melitele’s tits, why did Geralt have to make everything so difficult? 

“Yes,” the bard said simply, taking advantage of the witcher’s surprise and finally succeeding in getting his arm free. 

Geralt’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. 

“Why?” he asked. 

Jaskier shrugged. 

“I got a job offer from Oxenfurt and I decided it was high time I accepted it,” he explained. It wasn’t technically a lie, but Geralt still didn’t look convinced. 

“And you decided to leave in the middle of a hunt without saying anything to me,” he grunted, arms crossed. 

Jaskier huffed a sad sort of laugh. 

“I didn’t think you’d notice. You were a bit preoccupied,” he said, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. 

Geralt’s frown deepened. 

“You’re upset about Yennefer? We were just--

“Spare me the details,” Jaskier said, holding up his hand. He was being petulant, he knew, but damn it his heart had been broken time and time again and he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Geralt said knowingly. 

Jaskier cursed whatever god had chosen now as the time for Geralt to take an interest in the bard’s goings on. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jaskier mumbled, turning once again to try to pick up his things. 

Geralt caught his arm again, but his hold was gentle this time. 

“Tell me anyway.” 

Jaskier weighed his options. He could tell Geralt to fuck off and keep heading down the mountain with the hope that the witcher would let him go without a fuss. Or he could finally tell Geralt what he’d been dying to tell him for years now. Regardless of the choice he made, he had no doubt he would end up alone at Oxenfurt anyway. Might as well come clean while he had the chance. 

“The red thread of fate. I can...I can see it,” Jaskier said, not daring to face the witcher. 

Geralt’s hand slipped from his arm, but he said nothing. Jaskier turned around, surprised to find almost a smirk on the witcher’s face.

“Are you drunk?” he asked. 

Jaskier’s blood was beginning to boil under his skin. He glared at Geralt, taking pleasure in the way the smirk fell from the other man’s face. 

“On the contrary, I’ve never been more sober. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” 

Geralt sighed. 

“You’re asking me to believe that everyone in the world has a thread around their finger that’s attached to their soulmate? Sounds like more destiny bullshit to me,” he said. 

Jaskier threw up his hands in exasperation. 

“Why is it always bullshit with you? Why can’t you believe there are as many good things in the world as there are bad?” he asked. 

The stoney expression on Geralt’s face didn’t give. 

“Because there aren’t.”

Jaskier could have screamed. 

“You’re infuriatingly stubborn. Heaven forbid you trust the man who’s been traveling with you for twenty years,” he said, voice wavering as he attempted to keep it steady. 

“I never asked you to--

“For the love of--that’s why I don’t age!” Jaskier shouted. 

That got Geralt’s attention. His eyes widened and he took a step toward the bard, but Jaskier held up his hand and shook his head. The adrenaline rush was giving him courage that he hadn’t had before. If he didn’t get it out now, he might never. 

“I’m bound to someone who lives for a long time,” Jaskier continued, stepping back to lean against the tree behind him, afraid that without it’s support he might fall. 

“And you know, I thought immortality wouldn’t be so bad if I got to spend it with them. But they don’t want me. They never have.”

“Jaskier--

Geralt was moving toward him now, but Jaskier’s eyes were fixed on the ground. 

“They’ve broken my heart so many times, but I...I couldn’t imagine being bound to anyone else.” 

Jaskier’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but he knew Geralt would hear. Part of him hoped that Geralt would read between the lines. Would understand everything else that Jaskier just couldn’t find the words to say. With a long steady breath, he finally looked up, surprised that Geralt was so close. 

“C-can you guess who--

“I don’t care,” Geralt snarled, pushing into Jaskier’s space and pressing their lips together. 

The kiss was soft despite the anger in Geralt’s voice and Jaskier was so surprised he forgot to kiss back until the witcher was pulling away. Jaskier didn’t let him get very far, curling his fingers into the flimsy fabric of Geralt’s well worn back shirt and dragging him in again. 

Geralt’s hands were on his hips, squeezing so hard that Jaskier knew he would have bruises tomorrow, but he didn’t care because Geralt was  _ kissing _ him. The witcher trailed his fingers down Jaskier’s thighs, hands gripping his ass and lifting until Jaskier had no choice but to hook his legs around Geralt’s hips. 

There was a desperation in the kiss that Jaskier hadn’t thought Geralt capable of. All the times he had pictured this moment, it was never like this. But this--this was so much better. Jaskier looped his arms around Geralt’s neck, opening his mouth with the witcher’s tongue teased at his bottom lip. His whole body shuddered when Geralt groaned into the kiss, pressing impossibly closer, hands squeezing Jaskier’s ass. 

Jaskier broke the kiss to breathe, his head falling back against the tree as Geralt took the opportunity to get his mouth on his neck. 

“G-gods Geralt. You’re t-taking this much better than I-I thought you would,” Jaskier gasped, rocking his hips against Geralt in a desperate attempt at some friction while Geralt nibbled under his jaw. 

“Don’t care who you’re tied to,” Geralt growled in Jaskier’s ear, catching the lobe between his teeth. “I want you. Please, let me have you,” he groaned, rocking his hips against the bard’s and tucking his face into the crook of his neck.

Jaskier’s eyes went wide. 

Oh shit. 

Geralt hadn’t figured it out. He seemed to believe that Jaskier could see the thread, but he didn’t know that he was the one Jaskier was tied to. Which meant that what was happening between them was--well, Jaskier wasn’t sure what it was. Lust? Years of sexual tension finally breaking? Whatever it was, they clearly weren’t on the same page. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to remedy the situation, but stopped when he caught a familiar scent clinging to the witcher. 

Lilac. 

Yennefer’s perfume. 

He was so caught up in finally having Geralt’s hands on him that he’d forgotten about Yennefer. And now that he had remembered--

“Stop,” Jaskier said, pushing at Geralt’s chest. 

“Geralt, y-you have to stop. Please.” 

Geralt was off him in an instant. He lowered Jaskier gently back down to the ground, his hands hovering over the bard for a moment before dropping to his sides. They were both breathing heavily and for a moment Jaskier was sidetracked watching a bead of sweat dripping down Geralt’s neck. He shook himself out of it. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said quietly. 

Geralt looked more helpless than Jaskier had ever seen him. 

“I thought you wanted...” he trailed off, his usual frown sliding back into place. 

Jaskier opened his mouth but was cut off by a loud cry. 

“Geralt! Geralt, where the fuck are you?!” 

Jaskier’s stomach dropped. That was Yennefer’s voice. She sounded awfully close considering they were a fair distance from camp. Which meant--

“I have to go,” Geralt said, turning on his heel and heading back toward. He paused a few paces away and looked back over his shoulder. 

“Are you coming back?” he asked. 

Jaskier resisted the urge to take the out the witcher was offering him and nodded, collecting his belongings quickly and following after his friend. 

“Geralt, I--

The witcher shook his head as he pulled out his sword. 

“Later,” he grumbled. “We’ll...later.” 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack!
> 
> It's been so long I had to reread the fic and then rework the entire outline I had for the last two chapters to get it back on track lol.

Jaskier could count on one hand the number of times he’d been rendered speechless. By his count, this was only the third time in his forty years of life. 

Upon returning to camp, Geralt made quick work of diffusing the scuffle that had broken out among several of the men hunting the dragon. There hadn’t been too much blood spilled, most of the men deciding it was better to put aside their differences than be dispatched by a witcher, for which Jaskier was grateful. He was already full of anxiety just thinking about the talk he and Geralt were supposedly going to have later. The last thing he needed was a group of blood thirsty halfwits murdering Geralt before they got the chance to...talk. 

But it wasn’t the fight that had him at a loss for words. It was the appearance of an old friend. A friend they had all seen take a fatal fall of the side of the mountain. 

Borch. 

“How?” Geralt asked, his grip tightening around his sword as the man they’d all thought to be dead took a seat by the campfire. 

“There’s no time,” Borch said, picking up someone’s forgotten bowl from dinner and taking a large bit. He was acting incredibly nonchalant for someone who had taken a swan dive off the side of a mountain. He pointed at Geralt. “I’d like a word with you. Alone,” he said, casting his gaze pointedly at Jaskier and Yennefer. 

Jaskier was about to protest, because this was a story he was dying to hear, but Yennefer took hold of his arm and steered him away from camp. 

“In my experience, if someone’s gone through the trouble of coming back to life, it’s best to let them do what they want,” she muttered. 

With a final look over his shoulder at Geralt, who wasn’t paying him any mind, Jaskier allowed himself to be led away by the mage. 

“So...you and Geralt?” Yennefer asked knowingly, taking a seat on a clean looking patch of grass once they were a far enough distance from camp. 

Jaskier blushed. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier said. The last thing he wanted was to let on to Yennefer how he felt, for fear she would hex him into next week for being hopelessly in love with her paramour. 

The mage rolled her eyes. 

“Oh please. It’s written all over your face. And your lips. Unless you’ve taken to wearing lip paint, which to be fair would be a good look for you, you’ve been kissed recently. And since I doubt anyone else in our hunting party is up to your usual standards, I can only assume that Geralt finally removed his head from his ass and gave you the ravaging you so clearly need,” Yennefer mused. 

Jaskier gaped at her. She didn’t seem put out at the notion that it was Geralt who’d put him in such a rumpled state. If anything, she looked amused. 

Suddenly, for reasons that Jaskier couldn’t fathom, he found himself telling her everything. He collapsed to the forest floor next to her, and the truth came tumbling out; the power he had been born with, believing he didn’t have a thread for most of his life, finding out that wasn’t true when he met Geralt, never aging. It all came pouring out of him before he could stop himself. 

“A-and then he kissed me!  _ He _ kissed  _ me _ and I thought he knew. How could he not know? But he doesn’t. He still doesn’t know because I can’t even get it through his thick skull that the red thread is real, let alone that he has one that ties him to me. Oh god, and what is he going to do when he finds out? He’s going to send me away. It won’t matter that he wants me, at least physically, because we both know he’d rather be alone than let destiny tell him who he’s meant to be with. H-he won’t want me anymore,” Jaskier said, bottom lip trembling. 

Yennefer said nothing. She hadn’t said anything since Jaskier started his tale, just sat and listened patiently. It occurred to Jaskier that maybe pouring his heart and soul out to the woman Geralt was currently involved with, wasn’t the smartest idea. He remembered, despite the kiss, that it was Yennefer’s tent Geralt had gone to. It was Yennefer’s perfume that he’d smelled, even when Geralt’s lips were on his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, looking down at his hands. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this. Please don’t be angry at Geralt for what I’m now assuming was a major lapse in judgement during a moment where tensions were running high. He’s only had eyes for you for years now.” 

Yennefer frowned at him. 

“Jaskier, Geralt and I are--

“For what’s it’s worth,” Jaskier continued, ignoring whatever it was Yennefer was about to say. “I’m glad it’s you that he’s chosen to be with,” he said, huffing a soft laugh. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye but if I’m being honest, if it were anyone but you I don’t think I could part with him.” 

“You love him enough to let him go?”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, fingers pausing where they had been fidgeting with a loose thread at the hem of his doublet. He nodded. 

Yennefer took one of the bard’s hands in her own, her voice soft when she spoke again. 

“Oh Jaskier, he doesn’t deserve you.” 

Jaskier shook his head. 

“He deserves  _ everything _ ,” Jaskier said, lips quirking into a sad smile. “You know, I don’t think there’s another person in the world more deserving of love than he is. And he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see how good he is. But maybe you can show him. Help him see that love isn’t something to be afraid of.”

Yennefer laughed, though not unkindly and gave Jaskier’s hand a squeeze. 

“I’m the last person in the world who could teach him that,” she said cryptically. 

“Ah, yet another thing the two of you have in common. You see? You’re perfect for each other. Strong and stoic and far less likely to annoy each other to death than if I were--

“Jaskier, Geralt and I aren’t together,” Yennefer said suddenly, cutting off the bard’s self-deprecating rant. 

Jaskier’s head snapped up, eyes widening. 

“...what?” he asked.

Yennefer smiled in amusement. 

“We’re not together. We haven’t been for years,” she told him. 

Jaskier pulled his hand from her grip and got to his feet. He passed back and forth, opening and closing his mouth but finding himself, for the second time that day, at a loss for words. 

“W-what? But...he went to your tent! And--and a few months back, outside of Temeria, the two of you--

“I understand why you would think that, but you’re wrong. Geralt loves me. And I love him. But not that way. Not anymore.”

Jaskier’s thoughts were rushing through his head so fast it was making him dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t like everything was magically going to be okay now, but it did take some of the weight off of Jaskier’s shoulders to know that at the very least he no longer had Yennefer to compete with. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, jolting him from his thoughts. “You have to know it’s not me that he wants.” 

The bard shook his head, taking a step back. 

“Please. Please don’t say anything that might give me hope,” he begged. “I-I’ve spent so many years believing that he was in love with you. So much so, that even after he kissed me, I-I figured he’d still run back to you at the first chance he got. I’m having a bit of trouble breathing. Is it hot out here? I could have sworn it was cold,” Jaskier said, swaying on his feet. 

Yennefer placed both her hands on his shoulders, squeezing hard to keep him grounded. 

“Take a deep breath. The last thing we need is you passing out before you have a chance to tell Geralt that--

“Tell me what?”

Jaskier jumped in surprise at the sound of a very familiar voice. He turned his head and sure enough, there was Geralt, in all his glory and considering the events of the day Jaskier really couldn’t be blamed for what happened next. 

He fainted. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jaskier couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes because when he woke up he was still on the forest floor, Geralt and Yennefer leaning over him with concerned looks on their faces. 

“I’m fine,” he said before either of them could ask, pushing himself up and pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead when the world spun. “Just got a touch woozy. Must be the heat.” 

“It’s cold,” Geralt said flatly. 

Jaskier shrugged. 

“Maybe the altitude then.” 

“Jaskier--

“Right, um, more importantly, Borch’s alive! How did that happen? Please tell me you asked him,” Jaskier said quickly, eager to keep the conversation on a safer topic. 

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm and hefted him to his feet. 

“He’s a dragon,” the witcher said. 

“Excuse me?” Yennefer asked before Jaskier could. 

“He’s a dragon,” Geralt said, as if that wasn’t world shattering news. He fixed Jaskier with a look that kept him frozen in place then turned his attention to Yennefer. “We need to talk.” 

Yennefer arched a curious brow, her gaze flickering to Jaskier. 

“Yes, I believe we do. Jaskier, would you mind giving us a moment?” she asked. 

Jaskier nodded. 

“I’ll just, um, head back to camp then, shall I?” 

Neither of them answered, so Jaskier took that as a yes and made a hasty retreat, surprised to find Borch still sitting by the fire when he got back to camp. 

“So...you’re a dragon then?” he asked awkwardly. 

Borch nodded. 

“I am. And as such, I know a great many things. Including things about you and the witcher,” he said. 

Jaskier’s eyes went wide. 

“You didn’t tell him did you?” 

Borch was silent, but the look in his eyes told Jaskier all he needed to know. 

“Oh sweet Melitele, you did. O-oh no. Oh, I’m sure he didn’t take that well at all, did he? Tell me now, should I run for the hills?” Jaskier asked. 

Borch shrugged. 

“If you think that would be best, I’d be happy to open a portal for you wherever you’d like to go,” the man offered. 

Jaskier grabbed his lute and his bag. 

“Oxenfurt. I’d like to go to Oxenfurt,” he said, looking around to make sure Geralt was nowhere in sight. 

“As you wish,” Borch said, waving his hand and opening a swirling blue portal. “But you know as well as I, little bard, that you can’t outrun destiny.” 

Jaskier swallowed hard, staring into the portal. He was being a coward. After all, Geralt had said they would talk and they hadn’t yet. Maybe the witcher would surprise him. Or maybe he’d break Jaskier’s heart. For good this time. 

It was a chance that the bard wasn’t willing to take. 

With one final look to the forest, he stepped through the portal. 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! This is the last chapter!!! I know I took a big long break between uploads, so I wanted to get the last chapter out promptly to make up for it lol. Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> *okay, I had to re upload a little bit of the last chapter cause I accidentally forgot to add the last few paragraphs lol. So if you read it and were confused by the very abrupt ending, that was not actually the whole ending scene.

Oxenfurt hadn’t changed much since the last time Jaskier was there. The curriculum had been updated and clearly they must have received donations from some very generous parents because all the equipment was brand new. So perhaps it was wrong to say that it hadn’t changed, because on the surface, it was vastly different. But the classrooms still smelled like the oil they used to treat the instruments, and the ever persistent ivy that covered much of the outer bricks of each of the buildings still flourished. 

It was the initials that Jaskier had carved on the back of a bench in the courtyard, however, that made him feel most at home. They’d faded over the years, but they were still easy enough to read; a simple J.P. without a single embellishment. There was a time he’d hoped to someday have another set of initials to add after his own, as the rest of the lovesick musicians in his class did. There wasn’t a tree or a bench on campus that didn’t have at least one set of lover’s initials etched into it. But while his time as a student taught him enough about music to make a name for himself, he never found someone whose initials he longed to put beside his own. Oh, he’d had lovers to be sure, but that’s all they were; fleeting dalliances. It kind of put a damper on things being able to see their threads and knowing that, while they were happy enough to fall into Jaskier’s bed, they were destined for someone else. 

When he’d first arrived back on campus, Jaskier thought he might add Geralt’s initials after his own. What was the harm? It’s not like the witcher would ever have to know about it. He decided better of it when he realized how utterly pathetic the notion was. 

That was nearly a month ago now, and all things considered he’d settled in nicely. Of course, things would be going a whole lot better if he could write anything halfway decent. Ever since he arrived he’d been in a bit of a slump creatively, unable to chain together a lyric to go with a single one of the melodies he’d crafted. It was infuriating. It was--

“Mr. Pankratz?”

Jaskier looked up from his sheet music, a small smile on his face as he acknowledged his teacher’s assistant standing awkwardly in his doorway. 

“Please, Moira, call me Jaskier. Mr. Pankratz makes me feel old,” he joked, tucking his pages away to give her his full attention. 

Moira blushed and nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“I’m sorry to bother you Mr.---Jaskier. There’s someone here to see you. He says he’s an old friend,” she said. 

Jaskier frowned. He’d been at Oxenfurt a month now and no one had come to see him. Granted no one knew he’d ended up here, so that might account for the lack of visitors. He’d long since given up on Geralt coming to find him. His stomach dropped when he remembered that Mr. Holland had mentioned Valdo Marx popping in to teach a master class. Gods above, he hoped he was wrong. 

“Very well. Send him in,” Jaskier said, getting up from his desk and straightening his doublet. 

Moira nodded, stepping out of his office to let the mysterious visitor know that he could go in. At the sound of a gruff “thanks,” Jaskier’s heart stopped. He knew that voice well. Too well. 

“Oh shit,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, glancing around the room quickly even though he knew there was no other escape route besides the one door. Well, perhaps the window. He was only on the second floor, it wasn’t that high up, it--

“Jaskier.” 

Too late. 

Jaskier plastered a smile on his face as Geralt stepped into his office. Gods help him, Geralt looked every bit as gorgeous as he always did. A little tired perhaps, but his hair was clean, as were his clothes. He wasn’t wearing his armor, just a pair of tight fitting black pants and a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. 

“Geralt! H-how nice of you to drop by. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The witcher’s face was carefully neutral as his eyes swept over the bard. 

“You grew out your beard,” he observed. 

Jaskier brought a hand up to nervously touch the stubble at his cheek, suddenly insecure in his decision to forgo shaving. 

“Yes, well, they do keep me pretty busy around here. I don’t have a lot of time for personal grooming, a-and it’s going to start getting cold soon so I thought--

“You left.” 

Jaskier flinched at the note of betrayal in Geralt’s voice. Despite the stoic mask the witcher wore, Jaskier could see he was upset in the confused furrow of his brow and the almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. 

“I talked to Borch,” Jaskier said, leaning back against his desk for fear he might fall over if he didn’t. “I-I know what he told you when the two of you talked and I--I wasn’t ready for you to send me away for good. So I ran. It was a cowardly thing to do, I know, but I didn’t think I could handle having my heart thrown in my face. It’s been yours for so long, I’d hardly know what to do with it if you gave it back.” 

Geralt looked surprised and Jaskier couldn’t help the blush that spread across his cheeks as his brain caught up with what he’d just said. Sure, he hadn’t said those dangerous three little words, but it was a close thing. 

“How long have you known?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier frowned in confusion for a moment before he realized what Geralt was asking. How long had he carried the secret of the thread?

“Decades,” Jaskier admitted. 

Geralt nodded slowly. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaskier huffed. 

“I tried!” 

Geralt thought for a moment. 

“That night at the Inn,” he said knowingly. “And then again when I...when I kissed you. You were trying to tell me.”

Jaskier scrubbed a hand down his face, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. 

“And so many other times over the years. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops the moment I met you, but then you told me the thread was bullshit and I couldn’t get you to believe it was real, let alone that I could see it,” Jaskier was rambling now, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “And then you kissed me and I thought you knew. I thought I’d made it clear, but you still didn’t know! Then I ran into Borch and I found out that he told you and I was so _scared_ that you would leave me for good.”

“So you left me instead?” 

Jaskier’s head shot up, eyes locking with Geralt’s, heart aching at the hurt so clear on the witcher’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, clenching his fists to keep himself from doing something stupid like reaching out and holding onto Geralt for dear life. “Please. Please, try to see it from my side. I spent so much of my early life thinking there was something wrong with me because I didn’t have a thread and--

“You didn’t have one?” Geralt asked, brow furrowed. 

Jaskier shook his head. 

“Not until I met you. It’s only fair I suppose. No one else can see their thread, they just have to trust fate to lead them where they’re meant to be. I thought I was going to be alone forever, but then I met you and it turns out that not only do I have a thread, but I’m tied to the most beautiful man in the world who has no idea how utterly deserving of love he is and I thought I could spend every day of my life proving it to you,” Jaskier admitted. It was all out in the open now, so there was no point in hiding how he felt anymore. “But you didn’t want me, which at first was an ache I didn’t think I could stomach. After a while it didn’t seem so bad. I could stay by your side and love you as a friend and it would be enough.” 

Jaskier's eyes stung with unshed tears and he grit his teeth, trying to get a hold of himself, but it was no use.

“But it wasn’t enough, and I was a fool for ever thinking it could be,” Jaskier said softly, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Before he could cover his eyes, face hot with shame and embarrassment, gentle hands cupped his cheeks and tilted his face up. 

Geralt brushed Jaskier’s tears away with his thumbs, leaning down to press his lips to one cheek and then the other. 

“You want to be with me?” Geralt asked, sounding unsure despite everything. 

Jaskier snorted, laughing wetly. 

“Geralt, I’ve been flirting with you for nearly thirty years. And I all but confessed my undying love for you, or did you miss that part?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes good naturedly, leaning in to press his forehead against the bard’s. 

“Forgive me, but you _have_ made a bad habit of running away from me every chance you get. It’s been...confusing,” Geralt said grouchily, one arm dropping down to circle Jaskier’s waist. 

Jaskier couldn’t help it. He busted up laughing, so hard that he had to lean against Geralt for support. But it wasn’t long before the laughter shifted into sobs, Jaskier clinging to Geralt as tight as he could, trying to get as close as possible. 

Geralt hushed him, rubbing soothing circles on his back and kissing the tears from his cheeks. 

“Enough,” Geralt murmured, rocking Jaskier back and forth in his arms. “Enough running. Stay.” 

Jaskier nodded, keeping his face tucked into Geralt’s neck even as the witcher tried to pull away. 

“Jaskier--

“Not yet,” Jaskier mumbled, holding on even tighter. 

Geralt sighed. His hands found Jaskiers, easily extricating the bard’s grip around his shoulders. Ignoring Jaskier’s protests, he curled his fingers underneath the other man’s chin and tilted it upwards. Jaskier’s breath caught. 

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” Geralt murmured, lips hovering so close that they nearly brushed Jaskier’s as he spoke. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Jaskier said, looping his arms loosely around Geralt’s neck. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you.” 

“I understand why you did,” Geralt told him, finally closing the last bit of space between them and pressing his lips softly to the bard’s. 

Jaskier’s whole body trembled, just as it had the first time Geralt kissed him a month ago on top of the mountain. It had been harsher then, years of tension finally boiling over. But now, goddess above, Jaskier didn’t know it was possible for a kiss to be as gentle as this. He gasped softly when he felt Geralt’s tongue trace along his lip and opened his mouth without hesitation, letting the witcher deepen the kiss. 

"For what it's worth," Geralt said, voice low. "I like the beard." 

Warmth spread through Jaskier and he couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, but it melted into a whimper when Geralt nibbled his bottom lip.

The kissing quickly turned heated as Geralt tipped Jaskier backwards onto his desk, laying half on top of him and fisting a hand in the bard’s hair. Jaskier broke the kiss with a moan of surprise, shivering when Geralt’s lips found his neck instead. Never a passive lover, Jaskier eagerly tugged Geralt’s shirt from his pants and slipped his hands up the back of it, grinning when he felt Geralt shudder under his fingers. Oh, that was lovely indeed. He opened his mouth to tell Geralt as much, but the witcher hushed him. 

“Enough talking,” Geralt growled, nipping at Jaskier’s neck. 

“Oye!” Jaskier cried, grabbing a handful of Geralt’s long silvery hair and tugging until the other man looked at him. “Not talking is what got us into this mess in the first place.” 

Geralt huffed. 

“Fine. Talk,” he grumbled. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to say something, but cut off when he realized the position he was in. Geralt had him pressed back against his desk, one hand on his thigh and the other in his hair, and that was most definitely Geralt’ss hard on he was feeling against his own. Words be damned, he finally had Geralt where he wanted him and he was not about to let the moment go. 

“I suppose,” he said, cheekily sliding his hand from Geralt’s back to grab a handful of his ass, “we could talk later.”

The corner of Geralt’s lip quirked into a smirk that, had Jaskier not already been lying down, would certainly have made his knees give out. He smiled back, using his grip on Geralt’s ass to drag him closer and rocking his hips up at the same time, relishing the soft groan that sounded deep in the back on the witcher’s throat. 

“I-I hope you know,” Jaskier panted, trying to keep his words straight as Geralt started rocking against him in earnest. “We could have been doing this for _years_.” 

Geralt glared down at him, releasing his hold on Jaskier thigh to tug impatiently at the bard’s pants. 

“Could have had you laid out like this a month ago if you hadn’t run for the hills,” Geralt reminded him, cutting off whatever retort Jaskier had by giving his cock a squeeze. 

Never one to be outdone, Jaskier fought through the lust filled fog in his brain and undid the laces of Geralt’s pants with shaking fingers. He shoved them down over Geralt’s ass and curled his fingers around the witcher’s cock.

It was going to be quick, and both of them knew it. After years of wanting, how could they move together with anything less than desperation? 

Geralt swatted Jaskier’s hand away from his cock, wrapping his fingers around both of them, his breath hitching right where his lips were pressed to the bard’s ear. Jaskier’s hands found their way back to Geralt’s ass, squeezing hard and trying to drag the man impossibly closer. 

“D-don’t stop,” Jaskier pleaded, so close to the edge he would be embarrassed if he wasn’t sure that Geralt was in the exact same position. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Geralt teased, licking a long stripe up Jaskier’s neck before catching his ear lobe with his teeth. 

Jaskier laughed, a bright sounding thing, and rocked his hips up into Geralt’s fist as best he could. It was tough with the limited space between them, Geralt pressed so firmly against the bard that Jaskier could do little else than lay back and take it. Not that he minded. With his hands free he had access to as much of Geralt as he could reach, and wasn’t it a rush to _finally_ be able to touch the way he’d longed to for decades.

“Oh Gods, I-I’m close,” Jaskier warned, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s back and burying his face in the witcher’s neck. 

Geralt was having none of that, effortlessly holding himself about Jaskier, eyes fixed on his face. 

“Show me,” he murmured. 

It wasn’t a command, but it may as well have been because the next moment Jaskier was crying out, back arching as he came hard over Geralt’s fingers. Geralt moaned along with him, leaning down to catch Jaskier’s lips in a sloppy open mouthed kiss as he followed the barge over the edge. 

Jaskier let out a huff as Geralt collapsed on top of him. Despite the witcher’s considerable bulk, he couldn’t find it in himself to make the other man move. Not when he nuzzled his face into Jaskier’s neck and hummed like a contented house cat. 

They lay there for a long while, coming down together. Jaskier carded gentle fingers through Geralt’s hair, fighting to hold in a laugh when Geralt let out a sound that was suspiciously close to a purr. He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to the witcher’s forehead. 

“I’m sure it’s obvious by now, but in case it isn’t, you should know that I’m in love with you. Utterly besotted actually,” Jaskier told him, breath catching when Geralt pulled away from him. 

The witcher stared down at him, a smile softer than any Jaskier had seen on his face as he brushed his knuckles over the bard’s cheeks. 

“Me too,” he said, cheeks pink with the admonition. 

Jaskier smiled fondly at him. It was so typical of the witcher. Having sex on a desk, Geralt didn’t bat an eye. But admitting his feelings out loud had him red as a tomato. It was ten kinds of endearing. 

Jaskier frowned as something occurred to him. 

“You know...I’ve been at Oxenfurt for a month. Not that I’m complaining, because I’m immensely glad that you showed up, but what took you so long?” he asked. 

Geralt snorted, finally pushing himself back to his feet and putting himself back to rights. 

“I had to...pick up something,” he said cryptically. 

Before Jaskier could ask him to elaborate there was a knock at the door. 

“What is it Moira?” Jaskier called. 

“It’s Yennefer actually,” an amused voice answered back. 

Jaskier was off the desk in an instant, yanking his pants back up and trying to make himself look at least somewhat presentable. He opened the door, ignoring Geralt’s grumbles of protest behind him. 

“Yennefer! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jaskier asked casually. 

Yennefer’s eyes swept over him, a knowing smirk on her face. 

“Not that I’m not pleased as punch that you two finally sorted out your shit, but Ciri and I were wondering if we should get a room for the night or if we’d be leaving sometime today,” Yennefer said, looking pointedly over her shoulder at Geralt. 

Jaskier frowned. 

“Ciri? As in...Princess Cirilla?” he asked, turning to look at Geralt. “D-did you--

“Yes,” Geralt said simply, looping an arm around Jaskier’s waist and ushering him out of the office. 

“Whoa, wait, where are we going?” Jaskier asked. 

“You haven’t asked him yet?” Yennefer asked, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Geralt, it’s just like you to ravage him within an inch of his life before you--

“Yennefer!” 

Jaskier turned to see a young girl with platinum blonde hair running toward them. He hadn’t seen her since the last of her birthdays he played at, but there was no mistaking her. Princess Cirilla. The Child Surprise. 

“I see you found them,” Ciri said, looking back and forth between Geralt and Jaskier. “So, is Jaskier coming with us?”

Jaskier frowned.

“Coming with you where?” he asked. 

“To Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said, looking far more nervous than he had any reason to be. “Ciri needs training and with the war brewing it’s the safest place.” 

Jaskier’s heart leapt in his chest. 

“And you...you want me to come with you?” he asked, hope and warmth and love for the man in front of him spreading through his body from head to toe. 

Geralt’s cheeks were pink again, but he nodded. 

“Of course I’ll come with you, you ridiculous man!” Jaskier cried, throwing himself into Geralt’s arms and kissing him soundly before he remembered that they weren’t alone. He untangled himself from the witcher, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding so at all, even to his own ears. 

“We’ll be outside the gates when the two of you are ready,” Yennefer said, taking Ciri’s hand and leading her away. 

After he’d grabbed his things, Jaskier took Geralt by the hand and led him through the building and out into the courtyard. 

“I just need to do one thing before we go,” he said, leaning down behind the bench he’d carved his initials into. “May I borrow your knife?” he asked, assuming the witcher had at least one on him. 

Geralt handed the knife over wordlessly, watching Jaskier with curiosity. 

Jaskier took care at carving a simple G.R. next to his own initials. He knew Rivia was technically where Geralt was from and not his last name, but he had to work with what he was given. For all he knew, witcher’s didn’t have last names. He admired his handiwork, leaning back against Geralt when the witcher slipped an arm around his waist. 

“Come home with me,” Geralt murmured, lips pressed to Jaskier’s temple. 

The bard hummed, lacing their fingers together, heart fluttering to see their threads so close together. He smiled softly and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s knuckle, right where that little red, ever troublesome, thread was. 

“Of course, dear heart.”


End file.
